


Unfounded Belief

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: The Autumn Effect [23]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: 'quiet southern nights' are a big fat LIE, Arkham is creepy, Arlen Georgia, Bruce is so done it's not even funny, Crack, Crane likes to poke at trauma, Crane's the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral, Dick drove the car off-screen and that's scarier than anything Scarecrow could to to Bruce, Gaslights 'verse, Gen, Granny has no idea what she's doing, Granny's a tough cookie, I've been informed it feels like BURNING, Joking about murder like two weeks after it happened, Jonathan Crane: apathetic vampire hunter, Kitty is a stabby jack-in-the-box, RUN TIMMY RUN, Robins doing what Robins do best: saying fuck Batman and doing something stupid, Rogue Friendships equals throwing each other under the Bat-Bus, Selina screws them over, Sorry Uber guy, Southern Gothic, State Farm offers Bat-insurance, Superstitions, This Is Halloween, Vampires, Wedding Crashers: Murder Dorks Edition, Year One outtake thingy, affectionate mockery, and now there's werewolves, because they're awful, bit of vomiting, burnt skin flakes like a pie crust, but they deserved it, creepy-but-maybe-friendly scarecrow, drunken slasher marathon, fear toxin, fear toxin bites, it's hard being Batman, it's his favorite thing, killing our way through Twilight basically, light nod to Nightmare Before Christmas, mind control without consent is not a smart plan, out of the frying pan and into the fire, psychological torment, spiteful Ouija Boarding, stupidity hurts, that maybe wasn't smart, they all suck but we love them, you can't run from Crane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-16 14:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 39,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Superstition:  a widely held but unjustified belief in supernatural causation leading to certain consequences of an action or event, or a practice based on such a belief.They won't save you from the Scarecrow.





	1. Right Down in the Face of God

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, here we are again! Halloween. Hopefully this’ll be a bit better-my mother was having severe health issues last year, ended up in the hospital at one point. Fun times.  
> This year’s theme is ‘superstition’ because it’s so rich. It is a literal goldmine of ideas. :) This story’s superstition is death-related:, a European belief states that blood will flow from a corpse’s bones if it is touched by its murderer.  
> So, naturally, this takes place directly after Eyes Unable to Dream, because these fucking idiots can’t leave well enough alone. Title from a lyric in (naturally) Neko Case’s ‘Things That Scare Me’.

The bridge is quiet tonight. No frogs, no insects, no nothing. It’s…unsettling.

But they’re quiet, too, seated in the dark with the lingering smell of smoke on them, shivering despite the warm air.

Jonathan’s the first to break the silence, his voice weaker than he’d like it to be.

“We need to go back.”

“We do not need to go back.”

“We do,” he says, pretends he’s not pleased when she leans against his shoulder. “We need to make sure he’s dead.”

“Either he’s dead or crippled. Either way, he’s not comin’ after us.”

“Right now. He might later.”

She shrugs and tosses the flashlight back and forth.

“Maybe.” Silence. Then, “If he pops up from the ashes and kills us both, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair enough.”

Neither of them move. He’s not scared, for the record. It’s just…it’s been a long night, and he’s comfortable here, and he doesn’t want to make her move because clearly _she’s_ comfortable here (goodness knows why). That’s all. Fear has nothing to do with it.

An owl hoots and Kitty jumps. She jostles him, makes it look like he jumped. Which did not happen, because it’s an owl and it’s not like he hasn’t heard a thousand of them in his lifetime.

He really does jump when her fingers brush his hair, pulling out a leaf.

“Should we tell someone?”

“Not unless they start asking.”

She slumps back against his shoulder, twirling the leaf in her fingers. The bridge creaks and settles. In the distance, there’s a faint glow, already growing fainter. He’ll get up in a minute, but…he’s tired. And only a fool would go towards the flames. _Obviously._

Kitty straightens up to watch a firefly pass lazily by and he sprawls out on his back, planks rough against his shirt and one very determined splinter jabbing through to his skin. He could sleep here.

“Are you dead?” Her fingers jab against his ribs and he…it’s not a squeak. He would like to make that very clear, that that was not a squeak. It was a…a surprised noise, that’s all. “Oh god, you’re _ticklish._ ”

She sounds far too pleased about that.

“Kitty,” he says carefully, cracking his eyes open and tensing to roll away, “Kitty, I did not nearly kill a man for you tonight just for you to…to exploit any weakness I might have.”

It’s probably just the flashlight’s beam, but she looks downright ghoulish, especially when she grins at him.

“Exploit? Me?”

“Don’t you dare- _Kitty!_ ”

The light hits the ground as her fingers dig into both sides and _that’s not fair-!_

He manages to squirm away from her and curl into a ball before getting his legs under him and standing up, bridge creaking under him.

“Well?”

“You’d just leave me here? In the dark?”

“You have a flashlight.”

Right on cue, the light dies. It doesn’t really matter-sure, it’d be nice to have it to watch for creepy-crawlies, but he knows these fields like the back of his hand. Kitty sighs, says something that might rally the old church ladies to demand an exorcism, and stands up.

“All right, then.”

The smoke’s still strong even if the rain’s mostly dealt with the fire by the time they make it back. The house is still smoldering, a glowing heap of charred timber, and there’s no sign of-

-oh.

There is a sign. A little ways away from the embers lies a blackened figure, skin flaking like-and he knows this is a terrible comparison, but it’s accurate-like one of Granny’s pie crusts. Not like the man looks like a pie crust, or smells like one. It’s just…the skin…never mind.

“Is he dead?” Kitty’s right behind him, pressed up against his spine with one hand clinging to his shirt. “He looks dead…”

He will be very soon, if he isn’t.

“Let’s go see.”

They move closer, coughing all the while, and Jonathan forces himself to bend down and poke the remains. A chunk of flesh…chips…away,

_Just like a crust._

and dark red oozes forth. The man does not stir. Kitty yanks him back, out of the smoke and away from the hissing embers. Now, out in the fresh air again, his lungs and eyes are _burning._

And he can still feel the weight of the gun in his hands, the cool metal and the knowledge that if he squeezed that trigger, he wouldn’t regret it in the least.

“You’ve got…” She presses one finger against his left index and he hears a faint _squelch_ , feels warmth spread thin. “Well?”

Her finger is still touching his. Just one-to-one. It could just be the firelight, but he thinks he sees red trickling down from between them.

“He deserved what he got,” he says hoarsely, considers dropping his hand and, on a sudden whim, takes hers instead. “We should go.”

But they don’t, not for another long few minutes, during which she moves so her head’s on his shoulder and they’re both watching the embers flicker and weaken. He should feel something, he knows that.

But quite frankly, he doesn’t give a damn.

THE END


	2. Follow Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't go straight home after a funeral, evil spirits might follow.

"Does it look like rain?"

Jonathan pulls the drapes aside

_**HISSSSSS!** _

_Ow._

and squints at the sudden light. What time is it? What _day_ is it? And why is there sun? This is Gotham city. They don't do well with sun...ah. It's still raining, the clouds will catch up soon enough.

"The devil's beatin' his wife," he says absently, realizing far, far too late that-

"Are you sick?" Kitty appears out of nowhere, cardigan in hand. "Come here."

"Jus'-" None of that. "Just tired."

"Please, stay this way. You're not allowed to sleep if this is what I get." She leans up on tiptoe to kiss him anyway, fingers curled around the earpiece of his glasses. "But really, does it look like rain?"

"It is raining, there's just no clouds. They'll catch up eventually."

"Mm." She drops back down and shrugs the cardigan on. "You ready?"

"Always."

They walk. It's not far, and it's a nice day for the moment. The rain isn't even really rain, it's more of a drizzle. Freshens up the sidewalk, though, and the streets, turns the humidity to something a little cooler.

**_Cold?_ **

_No._

_**Yes you are. You are freezing. Maybe gonna die of cold.** _

_Shut up._

_**If you stick to the back...** _

_We have to._

He feels Scarecrow grin and a second later a decidedly not PG-rated image flashes behind his eyelids. It's too early for this.

_No._

The service is not overly full, and Jonathan decides to take the fact that the sun is shining as proof that yes, this man deserved everything they gave him. If Gotham's going to have one of its four sunny days to bury him, he had to die. It was a public service.

Hopefully he didn't have children...he just knows that any offspring would be ill-mannered and idiotic-oh, _no_.

He sees green. He knows that shade of green.

"Is that Eddie?"

"Maybe he'll trip and fall into the grave."

Kitty whacks his arm.

"Jonathan, no."

What? He didn't mean 'trip' in any insidious meaning. He really did mean trip, not 'I'm going to push him in and laugh hysterically as he gets mud under his nails trying to get out'.

Though that is tempting...

An older woman-mother, he suspects-is watching them and he smiles at her. This might not have been a wise decision-her eyes narrow at first, in that way people's do when they're trying to place a face, and then they widen, jaw going slack.

He's tempted, he really is, to ask her if she'd like to know what her loved one screamed about before ramming a chef's knife through his skull.

One day, perhaps...he's got it recorded, of course, maybe he'll slip the tape under her bed one night...

There's _possibilities_. Provided she doesn't die of a heart attack or anything.

"Jon! Kitty!" Damn. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Edward."

"Hi, Eddie."

Edward turns his attention to the slack-jawed old woman and smiles knowingly. Jonathan hates that smile. It always precedes _chatter_.

"A little bird-" This is Oswald's fault, isn't it, for that incident last Tuesday. May your precious iceberg _melt_ all _over_ your carpet, you spiteful little- "told me that there had been a tragic demise and that the funeral was today."

_**Ozzy's a dick.** _

_Yes._

_**Murder!** _

_If you'd like to ferry those flowers in, by all means._

_**...Batman.** _

_Mm._

"Yeah, well, if you're going to be stupid enough to try to rob us when we order pizza...we had to come, though, because he was timely about bringing it," Kitty's saying, reaching up fiddle with her sunglasses a bit. "I thought sunlight was illegal...I'm sure they have no idea that this was all self-defense."

"They wouldn't believe you. I was looking for you-"

"Of course you were," Jonathan mutters, because Oswald would betray him this way. Kitty knocks her head against his arm.

"-to ask you a riddle!"

Batman, where are you? What good are you if you're going to allow green-clad... _things_...to just wander around Gotham unattended? Useless swine!

"What has no hands but might knock on your door, and you better open up if it does?"

"An opportunity, though if it's from you I'll be slamming the door."

Kitty has more tact.

"Ah, Eddie, the last time we worked together, you threw us under the Bat-bus."

And they'd immediately returned the favor, but that was neither here nor there. He did it first, and that's the important thing.

Edward grins and tilts his head in acknowledgement. Jonathan wonders if it would be so wrong to shout, "The Riddler is here!" It might cause mass panic.

Hmm...

"Jonathan," Kitty hisses, "don't you dare."

"You know me too well," he grumbles, and she sticks her tongue out at him. Edward sighs.

"Stop that."

The old woman is starting to look as though she's going to raise a fuss. The service is over. It was very nice and he's going to be looking her up later, to offer his sincere condolences in a more private setting.

"We should leave," he says. The clouds are starting to build properly, too. A storm's coming, a proper one that will likely knock out the power. How nice.

"My current abode is compromised by a cat," Edward says. Jonathan wonders how long it will be before Selina robs him blind.

"We'll get lunch." Maybe they can lose him on the subway. Better, maybe they can throw him under the subway.

He waves at the old woman and turns away. This won't be bad, anyhow. Funerals always make him hungry.

THE END

 

 

 


	3. Foreshadowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here in the states, at least, we usually have mesh over the window so this doesn't happen. The manor in the comic, however, does not-probably because it's old-so. WELCOME, NATURE.

It's hot. Humid. A heavy breeze is comin' in from the east.

Which is why the windows are all open. He came downstairs a little past six and was greeted with the order of, 'open them'. He's not looking forward to closing them, especially not the one in the dining room-it's stiff and splintery and he always has to strain with it for several minutes before it slams down sharply and gets him yelled at for 'not bein' careful, boy, you think it's cheap to replace glass?'

But he doesn't have to close it right now, and he's grateful.

He's also thirsty, but wandering into the kitchen produces a pitcher of sweet tea, covered in cling-wrap to save it from the gnats that are still gathered around it, a pitcher of lemonade that he knows is mouth-puckeringly sour because Granny's daily ration of sugar went into the tea, or a glass of tap water, which is liable to be hot as Hell.

He settles for the water-he can't take the lemonade today and the sickly-sweet, gummy tea is...he hates it. Yes, he knows he's the local anomaly, but...but...why. What idiot ancestor looked at a pitcher of iced tea and thought, 'I shall pour a small mountain of sugar into this'.

Whichever side of the family that was, he disowns it here and now.

The water actually isn't that hot, but his mouth is still dry even after he drains the glass. He gets another one, which does nothing, and gives up, wanders into the parlor to check the mousetraps. He's taken to doing it, because if Granny does it, she...keeps...the remains to make her Special Soap, the one that incites the birds. She doesn't know, or he thinks she doesn't, and he'd like to keep it that way.

Nothing. Couple'a dying gnats, one wolf spider, and a cockroach (they need to spray again...third time this week already), but nothing else. Good.

**WHAPWHAPWHAPWHAP!**

He doesn't think, just moves, when he drops down with his arms over his head and his knees tucked up against his body. After a minute, when there's no cawing and pain and sharp feathers against his skin, he lifts his head, a little unsettled, and looks around.

It's just one bird, but it is a crow, now perched on the old hutch with the Very Old knickknacks dating from what Granny snarlingly calls The War of Northern Aggression. It caws, just once, before tilting its head and gazing down on him with one beady eye.

Unfortunately, the hutch is next to the door, and there's no other way out of this room.

 _ **I can get us out,**_ the raspy, dead-leaves-and-scurrying-insects voice inside his head whispers, and phantom straw fingers grasp his shoulders. _**Move.**_

No. He doesn't know what this recent development is, and he doesn't like it. Not one bit. He's going to deal with it at the earliest opportunity, but for now he has to stay in control.

The crow caws again and Granny's voice floats in, querulous and grating.

"Boy, if you're in there touching things-!"

"I-it's a bird, Granny." He swallows and puts a little more distance between himself and it. "One of the crows, I think it flew in through a window."

"Get it out, then. I won't have it breaking things."

She sounds far too gleeful about this and he doesn't have to see her to know she's smiling faintly and nodding to herself.

"Did you hear me, boy?"

"Yes, Granny."

"And watch your tone!"

This window's open. Wide open, too, not the crack that he usually tries for to prevent this sort'a thing.

"Shoo," he hisses, flapping his hand maybe six inches away from his body. "Go away!"

It does not go away. It flaps back and caws again. All right. Breathe.

If he climbs out the windows and sprints off into the fields, she won't know until he's long gone. Maybe he can live under the bridge.

No. She'll find him and then his skeleton will live under the bridge instead, and that's not appealing at all.

_**Get outta the damn way and let me deal with it.** _

_NO._

There's a feather duster-Granny's she must have been in here earlier, unless this is the one she lost last week?-on the table. He picks it up, eyes the crow, and throws it.

Misses, but hits the wall. The crow screeches and takes flight, circles the room a few times before spotting the window and vanishing back towards the chapel. Jonathan sinks to the floor, heart hammering against his ribs, and takes his glasses off to wipe the sweat from his nose. Again.

He forgets all about the incident until five months later, when he's scrubbing his hands raw and pretending he'll eventually forget the screams of agony. But he shuts the water off and, like a ghost, Granny's voice echoes in his ears: _"A bird gets in the house, somebody's destined for the gravedigger's shovel."_

Hah. Maybe there is some truth to that, after all.

THE END

 

 


	4. Sunday Rainy Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The temptation to use 'It's Like Rain (on Your Wedding Day)' for the title was STRONG, so be grateful I didn't. I considered this being in the Gaslights 'Verse, where the Murder Dorks are also the Annoying Married Couple, but...this happened. God help me.
> 
> Anyways, jury's out as to whether a rainy wedding day is good or bad, but it's not neutral, so.
> 
> Let us all remember what exactly happened to Granny, yes? Hold that happy thought.

Alanis Doug-excuse her, Alanis Watts now, thank you very much-always scoffed at brides crying at their own wedding. Hell, she scoffed at wedding-tears in general. But now...now she understands.

She tosses the bouquet backwards, expecting the usual whooping and hollering, and hears...nothing.

Nothing at all.

Um. What happened? Did she fling it so hard that it went into the chandelier? Did it land in a pitcher? IS SOMEONE DYING BACK THERE?

She turns. Her bridesmaids are backing away, and...

And.

Oh dear.

Her old bosses are standing there. Kitty Richardson has a hand over her mouth like she's trying not to laugh. Jonathan Crane...

Crane is adjusting his glasses. A scrap of leaf is caught in an earpiece hinge and he plucks it out, frowns at it as though it personally assaulted him. Her bouquet, Alanis realizes with growing horror, is at his feet.

Oh, God. Oh, _shit_.

Richardson is the first one to say anything.

"Well, if that's how you feel about me..."

Crane gives her an absolutely _scathing_ look and grumbles, "I wasn't expecting it to come flying at me."

"You're sure it was that, and not the imminence of commitment?" She laughs at him and Alanis inwardly cringes at the brush of pink that appears on his cheekbones.

They're all going to die. She just hit the Scarecrow _in the face_ , she is _screwed_...

Can she throw Donald under the bus? Somehow? It's Gotham, their prenup included automatic forgiveness of one shoving the other aside to flee a supervillain attack. Surely this is covered.

"I have done nothing to deserve this."

"You gained five inches in university," she suddenly hisses, jabbing a finger against his (are those pumpkins?) tie. "Five. Inches."

"Yes, yes I did. You...gained no inches." A sudden grin splits his features as he pats her head. "I'm sorry about that."

Alanis prays to every god she can think of, even the fictional ones, that they'll forget about her.

All right, so maaayyyybe testifying against her crazy employers was a bad move. But she wanted to work somewhere else, and it was the best deal she could cut with the prosecution. Besides, it's not like they stayed in Arkham. They broke out almost immediately! How can they hold a grudge, she got them free flu shots!

Crane leans over and plucks a pair of champagne glasses from one of the tables. Welp, there's that hope out the window.

"Congratulations on your marriage, Miss-Mrs., now, isn't it, my mistake-Mrs. Watts," he says dryly. Alanis prays for a freak earthquake. Behind her, Donald is shuffling towards the priest. That rat-faced _bastard_ \- "I'm so sorry to crash your wedding this way, but we felt the need to give you a gift! It isn't every day that such a...valued...employee celebrates a life-changing event such as this."

She regrets her life choices. She should have told Donald to fuck right off and fled the city.

"Let's take this outside!" Richardson says brightly. "It's such a nice day, no need to spend it cooped up indoors."

Right on cue, there's a bone-rattling **BOOM!** of thunder. Nobody moves. One of her bridesmaids (Kara, always 'drank a little too much earlier' Kara...) pipes up with a, "But it's raining."

It's probably a bad thing that nobody's all that shocked when Richardson shoots her.

"I _said_ , let's take this outside. After you, Mrs. Watts."

She moves. She's nearly to the door when Crane murmurs, "Were you aiming for her?"

"I was aiming for the cake." Richardson only sounds a little sheepish. "Oops."

'Oops'...sorry, Kara.

They troop outside. Alanis is gratified to see that the priest grabs onto Donald's elbow before he can make a break for it.

Despite the racket, the rain is actually pretty light. Steady, though, and it's not long before her dress goes from flowy and white to clingy and practically see-through. Crane and Richardson, those bastards, have an umbrella to share.

She's not sure whose idea it was to have a park wedding. She thinks it was hers, but she wants to blame Donald. Maybe they can share the blame. Whatever the case, there's a pond out here. It would have been nice for pictures. Now, though, it's black and it looks deep and she's sure it's going to be used in some nefarious and murderous plot.

 _Why did I testify?_ she screams internally? _Whyyyyyy?_

"Ladies and gentlemen," Crane says in that oddly soothing rasp of his, "we have gathered here today to witness a tragic event, brought about by the soon-to-be-deceased's own stupidity."

She feels the hatred burning into her head from all sides. Yeah, she made some poor life choices.

"Before we begin, I must warn you...anyone attempting to leave will _**regret it**_." Everyone shudders. "So. Come forward, Mrs. Watts. Let us have a look at you."

Her feet don't want to move. Somebody-which of these bitches is it? WHICH ONE?-shoves her forward. She thinks it might be Donald's mother.

Mother-in-laws suck.

They look at her, champagne in hand as though this is another Arkham fundraiser, and she wonders if maybe, just maybe, she can make a sprint for it. If she shoves the flower girl in front of them-

"I love the dress," Richardson says. Alanis isn't sure if she means it or not. "It's cut just right for you."

"Thanks?"

Crane finishes his champagne, sets the glass down on the ground, and adjusts his glasses. They get that creepy shine and Alanis wonders, not for the first time, if they have a button that turns that on. They shine in the damn dark! How?*

"If it were any other city, the rain might have been an omen," he says. "Alas...ah. Ducks."

It's not funny. It's nerves. And a little bit of shock that Jonathan Crane, who, even as her boss, hated normal stuff and would never have said 'ducks' in that tone of voice...just did.

She bursts into giggles. Frightened giggles, but giggles.

_Stop, stop, stop!_

The horror behind her is tangible. She thinks her mother-in-law is judging her. Fine, then, Janet, _you_ get up here, huh? LET'S SEE HOW YOU COPE.

The giggling finally wanes and she gasps, squeezes her ribs and chokes out, "I'm so sorry-the priest-"

"Quite all right," Crane says softly. "Common reaction."

Yeah, but-SHIT!

He grabs her-jeeze, those nails are _sharp!_ -and before she can so much as punch him, he's shoved her into the pond.

_QUACKQUACKQUACK!_

The ducks scatter. Alanis kicks off her shoes, wishes she hadn't worn white (it's her _wedding_ , come _on_!) and wonders if that's it. Maybe that's it?

"Oh." Crane sounds disappointed. "I thought she couldn't swim."

That DICK. You know what, she's glad she hit him with her bouquet! She hopes he has a delayed allergic reaction!

"I could shoot her."

"Kitty. You'd miss. You'd hit a goose that we don't see, and we would be swarmed."

"True...oh, well."

What?

**BLAM!**

A bullet hits the water inches from her and she paddles frantically towards the other side of the pond. Richardson laughs, there's another shot, and a bullet splashes down right where she was swimming towards. She changes direction.

**BLAM!**

To the left.

**BLAM!**

To the right.

**BLAMBLAM!**

Dive, dive! Fuck, dresses aren't made for swimming!

She comes up with pond scum on her face and duck shit in her hair, chest heaving. Crane and Richardson have come a little closer to the edge of the pond and she wonders if she can yank at least one of them into the water.

She bobs there, hoping Richardson's out of bullets. Now that the commotion's stopped, the ducks start to come back, quacking indignantly. Crane scatters a handful of what Alanis recognizes as the crostini they had for appetizers onto the water.

"It is a common wedding tradition to feed those who turn up," he says, voice pitched to reach the people behind them. "Look at all of you! We both know that you're here at least partly for free food and alcohol."

Some of her traitorous guests nod. Well. It's true, you find out who your real friends are when a supervillain attacks.

She can't breathe. Why can't she breathe?

Nobody pays any mind to her respiratory distress. In the distance, a fork of lightning bounces off of Wayne Tower.

"But everyone always forgets the ducks," he continues. "Those poor, hard-working creatures that appear-for no charge!-in your photographs, surely they deserve a little something. Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Watts?"

Right then, one of said ducks takes a bite out of her arm. She shrieks and flails and it backpaddles, wings flapping angrily. There's a big, red welt just above her elbow.

"Beautiful," Richardson says, patting Crane's arm and brushing a finger across her cheek. "I always cry at weddings..."

A handkerchief is suddenly in his hand. She takes it, dabs at her eyes, and frowns at her suddenly empty hand. Crane takes a sip of her champagne.

"Really?"

"I've been talking, my throat is parched."

Alanis gasps again, her lungs refusing to expand, and a duck-probably the duck from earlier!-dive-bombs her and rips out of a chunk of hair and flesh. When it lands, she sees blood on its bill.

No. No, no-

_Quack!_

"What did I tell you, hm?" Richardson says, resting her head against Crane's shoulder. "Feeding the ducks is such a relaxing hobby."

_Quack-quack!_

"Yes. Yes, it is."

Alanis turns. There's more ducks now, more than she thinks were there originally. They're not...something's not right. They're too close, despite her thrashing. Crane throws more crostini on the water and the one nearest to him grabs a mouthful.

"Please-"

"Shh." He draws a bottle from his jacket and holds it up. She recognizes her perfume, that _sick creep-_ "You really should have better security."

"What did you do to me?"

They smile at her. Another duck gets bold and flies at her head. She dives to try and dodge it, but it follows.

_Quack!_

"Somebody, please!"

She figures she'll go for it, paddles desperately towards the opposite shore. Halfway there her lungs seize and she coughs. If she could just-come on, just one breath-!

_QUACKQUACKQUACK!_

Her vision becomes white, and she goes under.

This time, she doesn't come back up.

THE END

* _I suspect this stems from a preexisting fear of me (Craneophobia, perhaps?). I do not 'have a button' on my glasses. It is hardly my fault that people overreact to them._

 

 


	5. Rocker

AN: Rocking an empty rocking chair will bring death. (Usually it's to your family, but...artistic license.)

_ I am the Queen of Darkness! _

_Her Majesty was besieged in the shower this day by the Many-Legged Horror, which opted for a sneak attack._

_SHUT UP SHUT UP._

* * *

Christopher feels like he's been driving forever. Occasionally he'll see signs of life-a house here, a No Trespassing sign there, and that church steeple isn't getting nearer or farther, it's just there, a little ways away, stark white and impossible to miss.

He's lost. He knows he is. He should have been there by now.

A cicada crashes into his windshield, leaving paper wings and scratchy legs and bug guts, and he tries vainly to get it off with the wipers before naming it Bob and giving up.

There's a dirt road up ahead, and way back off the road he sees a house, a big old plantation. He turns onto the road, figuring maybe _somebody_ can give him directions.

The church does not appear to have moved.

Bob's torn wings flutter in the breeze, coming to an abrupt stop when he parks the car. There's people here, at least-a teenage boy in a rocking chair, book in his lap and a glass of what looks like lemonade in his hand. The chair squeaks. He doesn't look up.

"Hi?"

One finger lifts off the glass, glistening with moisture. Christopher slaps at a mosquito. In the distance, he sees the top of _another_ church-Jesus, why is there so much...well, _Jesus_ out here?-and a crow flying by.

"Can I help you with something?"

Uh. Maybe that famous Southern Hospitality is a myth? Which, whatever, but they won't shut up about it, why?

"I'm lost," he says, hoping he looks 'helpless tourist' and not 'shotgun-worthy'. Not that he sees one, but this kid's giving him the creeps.

"Tragic." He takes a long drink and snaps his book shut, stands up. The chair rocks a few times before going still.

Everything's still. There's no breeze, and the boy is stopped dead at the edge of the porch, watching him with unblinking eyes. The only movement at all is the insect population-a cloud of gnats here, a handful of fat, lazy mosquitos there. Maybe it's too hot for nature to move.

"Where were you trying to go?" His voice is hoarse despite the drink he just took. Christopher licks his lips-dry and chapped already-and lifts his head. It's a kid. A slightly creepy kid, that's all. Probably has no social skills, living out here in the middle of Bum-Fuck, Nowhere.

A crow caws in the distance. The boy takes another drink, a drop of condensation falling, shining like a diamond, to the floorboards below.

"Arlen High," he says. "I'm the new math teacher. Will you be one of my students?"

There's a beat, and then the boy _laughs_ , harsh and sudden, for exactly ten seconds before going still and silent again and watching him with those brilliant blue eyes.

"Two miles up the road. See the church?" Yes. He sees the unmoving church. "Everything's around that-school, store, everything. And no, I finished this semester."

Good. He knows it's mean, but he doesn't care-he was not looking forward to teaching with this kid staring at him and not blinking.

"Thank you."

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"Michigan."

"The summers here can be-hello, Kitty."

WHAT-oh. Wow, another living person. What a novelty. This one's a girl, a little less creepy-looking then the boy on the porch, but she's literally RIGHT THERE and he's unsettled that he didn't hear her come up. What is this, _Children of the Corn?_

Please, no.

"How are you not dying of heat?" She brushes by him and plucks at the boy's long sleeves. He laughs again.

"Well, my beloved great-grandmother took me to church every Sunday and Wednesday, and the power of prayer granted me immunity to the blistering sun. You, a Godless heathen, are condemned to suffer."

There's a beat, and the girl swats his arm.

"You're the biggest sinner I know."

"You're the one always saying you're closer to Hell. That must be the problem."

"You're mean. Who're you?"

Christopher's just opening his mouth when the boy leans over the porch railing and drawls, "The new math teacher."

"I'm sorry." The girl-Kitty-picks up the book from the chair, rocks said chair with her foot while looking at the cover. "Are you reading ahead without me?"

 _Creak-creak, creak-creak_ , goes the chair. The boy shakes his head and straightens up, adjusts his glasses.

"I would _never_. Anyhow, sir, church. Can't miss it. Just go straight and you'll get there eventually."

"Uh, thanks."

"Good luck!"

He's going. This house is creepy and the boy is creepy and honestly, the girl's a little unsettling. Too cheerful for this dead house. Too fast-moving.

He gets back in his car. The girl waves. The boy just...watches. He's really, guiltily glad he doesn't have to teach them.

The church is not any closer after five minutes, but there's no sign of the house, or of life. Bob's splattered corpse is the only thing reassuring him that yes, things live here.

Well. Bob and the deer that bounds out into the road and stops in front of his car. The brakes do shit. The airbag does not deploy.

Christopher's head strikes the wheel and snaps back with a delicate _crack!_ The last thing he sees is the steeple.

It looks closer than it did before.

THE END

 

 


	6. Shatter Like Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for a frolic into my take on the Gotham by Gaslight verse (see other stories under Gaslights)! Superstition: broken mirror=seven years bad luck.
> 
> IT’S SO WEIRD TO WRITE THEM AS ‘THE CRANES’. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG IT’S BEEN OF THEM NOT BEING THE CRANES? DO YOU?

Bruce said don’t go. It’s too dangerous, he said. It’s like cornering a frightened dog, you’re going to be bitten, he said.

Like Bruce knows anything about Gotham. He’s been out of the country for years. They’ve lived here, scrounged a life out of the cobblestones, and they were doing…mostly fine…without his help. So, really, they don’t have to listen to him. Just because he puts on a cape and leaps around on rooftops, that doesn’t give him any sort of authority, or all-encompassing knowledge.

…all right, yes, Dick’s a little annoyed at suddenly being treated like a child. He hasn’t been a child-none of them have been-for years. He’s fifteen, he’s plenty old enough to take care of himself, so why is Bruce suddenly hell-bent on trapping them in the house? He lets them chase down other murderers! Besides, it’s not like they’ve been sheltered.

They’re not in uniform, when they rap on the Cranes’ door. It’s better, they figured, to maybe go for the evidence and get out, rather than arouse too much suspicion.

Honestly, they’re here on a hunch and no more. There’s no proof that Jonathan Crane is riding around Gotham and scaring people to death. By all accounts, he’s a dedicated teacher and nothing more. But he…specializes…in fear, and he has a background in chemistry.

It’s the best they’ve got. Besides, Tim met him, once, and he said his horse-a Belgian Black-had been familiar. There aren’t that many of those in Gotham.

So here they are, dressed in old clothes and dirtied up a bit with soot. Granted, they look a little healthy for urchins, but it’s twilight, that might be enough to hide it.

A housekeeper answers, a slip of a thing so unlike Olga that Dick’s suddenly struck with an ache for her and her angry Russian grumbling. Penguin’s house, with its mix of languages, had reminded him of the circus, and Bruce…Bruce speaks a lot of them, is willing to chatter with Dick in whichever one he wants (he’s really, really bad at Romani, though), but…it’s just not the same as walking in and hearing that natural combination.

“Can I help you?”

He’d forgotten, almost, that peculiar look people give when you look like this, as though it’s your fault you’ve nowhere to go. It’s pity and contempt rolled into one and he _hates_ it.

All the same, he gives her the big, sad eyes that always used to melt the old ladies’ hearts and says, “’Ave you got anything to give a couple of ‘ungry lads?”

They still work, or maybe Tim’s gotten in on it (Jason never could quite manage them, he always looks like he’s up to something). Whichever it is, the girl sighs and says, “Step around to the back and I’ll see what I can find.”

Yessss.

She’s barely shut the door when Jason snorts and says, “Sucker.”

“Shh.”

“It’s true, though.”

“Why are you like this.”

“You love me.”

“Sometimes I wonder-ow, what was that for?”

“You were close to me.”

Tim hides a snicker behind his hand. Yet again, his brothers are bonding over his misery. What did he do to deserve this sort of pain? He was only trying to be a good person, to look out for others. And how do they repay him? Mockery and bruises.

They go around to the back, where the girl is waiting. She lets them into a kitchen that looks like it doesn’t see much life.

Dick’s just starting to consider the next move-Tim’s the smallest, he can slip off somewhere if he and Jason keep her busy-when a long shadow stretches over the table.

He’s not supposed to be home. Why is he home.

“What is this?”

Jonathan Crane is a tall man, maybe even taller than Bruce, but almost painfully thin. Bright blue eyes inspect them from behind square spectacles, and underneath the right one is a long, thin scar, as though a claw or a knife had cut across his face. His hands are hidden inside black gloves, but he doesn’t appear to be going out. On the contrary; he’s holding a book in his hand, one finger tucked between the pages.

He could be the one they want, Dick thinks. The Scarecrow is a bit bulkier than Crane is, but that heavy coat of his…

“Sorry, sir,” he says carefully. Change of plans. They’ll leave and break in later. “We just-we’re going-”

“Nonsense!” Crane’s smile is forced, curved lips and flat eyes. “Sit. Eat something. You just surprised me, boys, I wasn’t expecting…company.”

He leans against the doorframe. Dick doesn’t think he’s blinked.

“T’anks, mister.” Jason makes himself comfortable in his chair, ankles twisted out to wrap around the legs. “Nice place ya got.”

“Hm.”

To be fair, Crane could just be awkward. He seems the type. But maybe not-he’s watching them like a bird, head tilted ever so slightly to the left, wiry body tense and prepared to move. Dick’s fairly sure that they can handle him-there’s three of them, and they’ve been trained, but. Those long sleeves, if he is who they think he is, there could be untold horrors hidden there.

He hasn’t experienced the stuff himself. Jason and Tim have, once, when they first found out why people were dying of literal fright, but he hasn’t. He has, however, had a run-in with what the papers are calling the Grey Lady, Scarecrow’s sword-wielding…accomplice? Partner? Whatever she is, she’s dangerous, and fast, fast enough (or lucky enough) to circle around him and drive that sword through his shoulder. He’d been out of action for nearly a month, and it’s still not back to normal.

“Jonathan, who’s-hullo.”

Mrs. Crane (Katrina? He thinks her name is Katrina…) is…well…if her husband is an inch away from smacking into the ceiling, she _isn’t_. It’s almost comical. Almost.

She doesn’t look healthy. Not actively ill, either, but like she’s getting over something. Her face is too thin in places, brown eyes too shiny, and there’s a small catch to her breathing that sounds more habitual than anything, lungs used to not getting quite enough.

“We have guests, Kitty,” Crane says, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Of a sort.”

“So I see.”

“I thought it only our Christian duty to offer them something.”

That seems to strike them both as amusing. If Dick moves, just a little, so that he’s closer to Tim, well…call it force of habit.

“Of course it is.” She comes forward and situates herself under his arm. “Eat up, boys, you look like you need it.”

So do they. All the same, Dick picks up the scone and takes the smallest bite he can get away with. Crane turns his attention to the girl (housekeeper?) and says sharply, “You may go home for the night, Miss Clancy.”

“Sir.”

And then she’s gone, and Dick’s left to feel as though that was their last shred of safety. If Jason feels the same, he doesn’t show it.

“So what are ya, a banker or somethin’?”

“I am a professor,” Crane says. Dick wishes he’d sit down. “Of psychology, particularly fear.”

“Don’t start rambling,” his wife warns. She turns a brittle smile on them. “Jonathan sometimes forgets that the rest of us aren’t as acquainted with the subject as he is.”

“I do no such thing. I educate the masses.”

Mrs. Crane rolls her eyes. Dick forces a chuckle, and Jason presses onwards.

“S’all right. We don’ mind. I mean, you fed us, least we can do is let’cha ramble.”

Tim takes that moment to sneeze, vigorously, and multiple times in a row. Usually, that is a natural talent that Dick _severely_ envies. Right now, though, it makes the pit of uneasiness in his stomach grow larger. Crane’s head snaps towards them, glasses flashing, and his voice is nowhere near friendly when he says, “Is he sick.”

“No, sir-”

“You’re _sure_?”

“Yessir.” Tim sniffles, fishing a handkerchief (well, scrap of fabric that they dirtied up a bit before coming out) out of his pocket and blowing his nose into it. “Jus’ the weather. Sorry.”

“Leave them be, love. It’s cold outside, everyone’s dripping.”

Crane doesn’t look too pleased, but he settles down and says flatly, “If you boys would like a seat by the fire for a few minutes, you’re welcome to it. I have papers to grade.” He turns, shoulders stiffening, and then turns back. “Keep in mind that the instruments in there are not for playing, so keep your hands to yourselves. Is that clear?”

They nod. He leaves. Mrs. Crane shakes her head and says, “When you’re ready, it’s just in the next room. Take your time. If you need anything, I’ll be in there. I need to sit down, though, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Dick waits until he’s sure she’s gone before pulling the other two into a huddle.

“Awwight,” he says quickly, “Jay an’ I’ll go make nice. Tim, see if you can slip upstairs or somethin’ and find…maybe the mask would do it, I dunno. Somethin’ good.”

Tim nods. Jason frowns.

“I don’t like it.”

“Nobody likes it.”

“Yeah, but…” He huffs and gnaws on his lower lip. “You find something, you get out. Don’t come lookin’ for us, just go.”

Tim nods. Dick’s tempted, he really is, to tell the other two to go and fetch Bruce, but he knows they won’t. This is the best plan they’ve got. Besides, Bruce is patrolling and it might take too long to track him down.

The hallway isn’t well-lit, but there’s a roaring fire in a room closer (or so he thinks…) to the front door. Tim slinks off towards the staircase and he and Jason walk in.

There’s a lot of books in here, and a sword on the mantel, and a creepy painting of a scarecrow looming over a woman. Either they’ve got impressively…unusual…taste, or they’re not even trying to be subtle. Dick doesn’t care.

The instruments Crane spoke of are on a long table against the far wall. They’re thick glass and Dick has no idea what they even do. If it weren’t for the liquids inside, he’d think they were paperweights or something.

Mrs. Crane is on the settee, cup of tea held tightly in thin, shaking fingers. She smiles at them, though, and nods to a couple of armchairs across from her.

“Thought there were three of you?”

“Timmy’s shy,” Dick says, forcing a sheepish smile onto his face as he and Jason cram into a single chair, the one closest to the door. “He’ll be in in a sec, s’just…y’know how kids are, eh?”

“Not really.” The smile turns a little strained. “That’s fine, he can take as long as he needs. Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“No thanks.”

Maybe it’s the fire giving her eyes that glossy sheen. That’s probably all it is. Or whatever’s wrong with her-she suddenly chokes and presses a handkerchief to her mouth, other hand slamming the cup down on the side table before pressing tightly to her chest. Next to him, Jason stiffens and _oh yeah, Mrs. Todd had somethin’ up with her lungs._

The coughs wane, but they sit in an increasingly awkward silence for a good five minutes. Dick hopes to God Tim’s found something. Outside, the rain picks up, fat drops hurling themselves against the windows.

“You boys can’t go back out in this weather,” Mrs. Crane says suddenly. Dick glances at the creepy picture and wonders if the scarecrow really is looking at him.

“We gotta spot,” Jason says. “I’m gonna go get Timmy-”

Oh no he doesn’t. Dick digs his nails into his thigh and says, “Jay, you know he’s shy, don’t pester ‘im.”

The look he gets promises pain and suffering later, but there’s no argument. Good.

“In this? Nonsense.” Mrs. Crane stands up, swaying a little. “You’ll get washed away-”

“Kitty!” Crane calls from somewhere in the house. “Did you drink your tea?”

She rolls her eyes, mutters, “My mother worries less…”, and calls back, “Yes!”

Maybe he’s trying to poison her. It makes sense, actually, the more he thinks about it. And Crane **is** a chemist, at least on his off-time…

Yes. He’s using his wife as a guinea pig. That _bastard_ **.**

How long has it been? Ten minutes? A glance at the clock says yes, ten minutes. Maybe Jason should go after Tim. Maybe Tim’s found something…no, ten more minutes. They can keep up this awkward silence for ten more minutes. But not if she leaves the room.

He elbows Jason in the ribs in an attempt to convey, _DO SOMETHING_. What? He can only cute his way so far.

“My momma had a tea for her cough,” Jason says, rubbing his ribs and not-so-subtly kicking Dick’s ankle. “I could make it for ya?”

“I’m all right. Let’s see about a room for you boys, hm?”

“I’ll just…go get Timmy, then.” Jason hops out of the chair and starts towards the hallway. “He’s gotta learn to face people sometime-”

“We’ll all go.”

This isn’t good. Um. Um. Tim probably got lost, yes, perfect. Tim is lost, he’s so sorry, he’s never been the same since that colt kicked him in the head, ha-ha.

Clinging desperately to this cover story, he gets up and follows Mrs. Crane and Jason to the kitchen. Tim’s nowhere to be seen and Dick dearly hopes that he found something and split.

Mrs. Crane raises an eyebrow at the empty room and Dick’s just about to launch into his explanation when there’s a light cough behind them and he whirls around, hand latching onto Jason’s wrist.

Crane is holding Tim by his coat collar, gloved fingers tight on the fabric. Tim isn’t struggling, but he doesn’t appear to be hurt.

“Well, well,” Crane says drily. “Imagine my shock when I entered my laboratory to find a little rat rooting through my notebooks.”

_Timmy, I’m sorry-_

“Let him go,” he says, wishing his voice wouldn’t shake. It’s easier to face people like this in a mask. “Please, we just-”

“We came here ta rob ya,” Jason says, and for once Dick wills him to keep talking. “But tha’s all, jus’ some jewelry or somethin’, we didn’ mean ta hurt anyone, we’re jus’ hungry, honest-”

Crane’s head does the bird-tilt again, this time accompanied by a nasty cracking noise.

“Is that so.” A long finger pops up and slides along Tim’s cheekbone. “I don’t think that’s quite true. Shall we try this again?”

What.

“Honest, sir-”

“While we’re all **_here-_** ” That was unsettling and unnecessary. “-why don’t we go down to my laboratory, hmm? Curiosity must be rewarded.”

“Fuck you.”

_GODDAMMIT, JASON._

But it’s too late to stop him. By the time Dick realizes what he’s doing, he’s yanked his arm free, vaulted over the table, and-

-stumbled to a halt.

Crane had wound his other arm around Tim’s chest, hand up near his jaw. His fingers are mostly in the way, but from the right angle, Dick can make out a syringe pressed ever-so-gently against his little brother’s jugular.

_We were right…_

“Come along,” Crane says. What choice do they have?

The laboratory is in the basement. Of course it is. It’s cold, damp, and lit by a single taper on a heavy table with leather straps trailing off it. It’s not a big room, though, which means the taper is adequate lighting-adequate enough, anyways, to see bottles and what Dick first thinks is another man, but turns out to be a…a skeleton, he can see the ribs, but it’s dressed. It’s wearing the Scarecrow’s long coat and mask and the scythe, wicked sharp, is propped gently against its shoulder.

Mrs. Crane lingers by the door and Dick hopes, he really does, that she’ll help them. Please…they can…

“This was my idea,” he says. “Let them go and I’ll stay here, they won’t say anythin’, I promise-”

Down here, in the dark, Crane looks decidedly more predatory than he had upstairs. The candlelight makes his glasses shine like mirrors.

“I think not- **oof!** ”

His arms uncoil as he doubles over and Tim streaks towards them, shoving the candle to the floor on the way. There’s cursing, but Dick doesn’t care-they are _leaving._

He grabs for Tim’s hand, shoves at Jason and half-herds, half-drags them towards the staircase. It feels like they brush by Mrs. Crane, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t _matter_ -where is Jason leading them?

A closet, it turns out. A dark, crowded coat closet not five feet away. Dick’s scarcely shoved Tim as far as he can get him when there’s footsteps outside, heading towards the front door.

They stay still, breathing as quietly as they can (and still so loud!) until it’s quiet outside. Tim’s hand comes up and tugs at Dick’s shirt and he jumps, knocking Jason against the doorknob.

“I got something,” Tim breathes. “A vial, off his table.”

“’Kay.” Dick swallows, straining to hear _anything_ outside. There’s nothing, and…and maybe… “Sh.”

He turns the knob slowly, very slowly, and opens the door to the smallest crack he can. It doesn’t look like anyone’s out there-he can see the wallpaper, and the floorboards, and the weak light from a gas lamp at the end of the hall. He shuts the door and turns around, pulls Tim out of the coats and eyes the umbrella Jason’s picked up. Umbrellas have always been more Penguin’s forte than his, and his are special anyway, but he’s seen Cobblepot take a man’s knees out from under him before. It didn’t look that hard.

“S’there another one?” Jason shoves the one he’s holding into Dick’s hand. “Jay-”

“’ve got a knife,” he says softly. “Want that instead?”

“No.” He’d much rather keep Crane at arm’s length. Or not see him at all. “Awwight. I want you two to run for the back door. I think it’s just a couple rooms back.”

“Two,” Tim says. “I know where it is.”

“’Kay. Go. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Don’t be stupid, Dick-”

“We gotta get that sample to B. I’m just gonna go through the front door.”

“Like a dumbass,” Jason hisses, like he _didn’t_ try to attack the nut earlier. Tim jabs two fingers into his ribs to shut him up.

“Look, I’ll be fine. Be just like a Bowery job, yeah?”

He can feel them both giving him flat, _don’t insult us_ looks. Too bad. They need to get out, and since Dick is the one who said, ‘this is a great plan!’, Dick is the one to-hopefully-draw Crane’s attention.

Besides, he’s the eldest. That makes this his job by _default._

“No, _Richard_ , this is _not_ like a Bowery job,” Jason seethes, and they don’t have time for this.

“Don’t die,” he says, and then he’s pushing open the door, looking both ways, and shoving them towards the kitchen. “If you follow, I will end you.”

They go. Dick waits until he sees them turn a corner before tightening his grip on the umbrella and creeping towards the front door.

Hopefully Crane’s outside already. It’s the logical place to look. And he can hear horses nickering and stomping a little, like they’re being woken and tacked up.

He’s so focused on the horses that he nearly walks right by Mrs. Crane, who’s standing in the little sitting room. She’s not dressed to go out, but her eyes are locked on him and he doesn’t know what to do. She didn’t stop them earlier, downstairs. Maybe she’ll let him go.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, the crackling of the fire and the horses the only sounds.

“Please,” he starts, but…but _please_ what? _Don’t hurt me, don’t tell him?_ Whatever he means, it must come across, because she smiles and turns away like she’s going to pretend she didn’t see him.

And then she _moves_ , sudden and fast, and the sword resting gently on the mantel is out of its sheath. Dick’s thrown back to a rainy alley, and _painpainpain_. His attacker had moved like that.

Well, he thinks, turning and sprinting for the front door, there’s that answered.

Which way, which way-?

Not this way. He skids to a stop at the foot of the stairs, figures to Hell with everything, and dashes up them and into a dark room that turns out to be a small bedroom. Single bed, small wardrobe, window that _won’t open c’mon c’mon!_ , and a full-length mirror.

He can’t get back out of here-there’s a creak down the hall that says he’ll be spotted. He scrambles on top of the rickety wardrobe, toes curling in his boots for the best balance he can muster, and tries not to breathe.

_Please don’t come in…_

Through a crack in the heavy curtains, he can see a two small figures dash under a street lamp. They made it. That has to be them, he can’t let himself believe it’s anyone else.

**Creak, creak, creak.**

He thinks, for a second, that she’ll keep moving. But then she enters the room, sword held far too easily in her left hand, and crosses to the window. Dick’s just about to jump and run when he sees himself, just visible, in the mirror.

She sees him, too. He knows she does; she turns far too quickly for there to be any other reason.

“There you are.”

The Grey Lady never speaks, never makes any sound at all. Dick’s glad. Mrs. Crane has a soft, friendly voice and the juxtaposition between it and the sword-wielding ghost would be…well, it would be something.

“Come down, please.”

Hell no! Dick’s not going to budge. She can’t reach him up here, sword or not.

“Mm-mm.”

He’s _not_ expecting her to throw her weight against the wardrobe, making it tremble dangerously and start to tip. He jumps for it, hits the bed and flips onto the floor-

-between her and the hallway.

_Well, shit._

“You look familiar,” she says, drawing nearer. The wardrobe unfairly decides to stay upright. “I don’t think you’re some homeless waif, oh, no.”

He remembers the umbrella in his hand. Penguin had just…sort of…jabbed with it and it had-

**Fwoop!**

It hadn’t opened when Penguin did it. But it’s open now, blocking his vision and generally being useless. Mrs. Crane laughs, a kind, ‘oh honey that’s unfortunate’ thing, and Dick steps back until his spine’s against the cold glass of the mirror. His shoulder aches, his heart’s pounding, and he wants to go home. This was a terrible plan, Bruce was right, they should have let him handle this.

The tip of the sword pokes through the umbrella and rips upwards, leaving the fabric to hang from the skeleton in tatters. He swallows and lets it fall.

“Where have I seen you…”

She can kill him. But like Hell is he making it easy for her to track down the others.

He swings wildly with the umbrella and she jumps back. The sword slashes through the air and he tries to dive aside. His foot catches the base of that damn mirror.

The mirror is unstable, it turns out. Dick hits the floor, jarring his shoulder, and the mirror follows with an earsplitting **CRA-ASH!**

Maybe that old story about broken mirrors being bad luck is nonsense-not two seconds later, Bruce comes flying through the window in a flurry of leather and sharp objects and **JUSTICE**. Mrs. Crane is gone. Where…how…

“B…?”

“Don’t move, Dickie.”

Huh?

He rolls over, hands sticky against the floorboards. Bruce drops down beside him, catching his arm in one gloved hand. Dick sees a shard of glass, a good four inches long, jutting up out of him near his elbow. Blood is soaking through his shirt already.

“Go.” He can’t take his eyes off the glass. “Go after her, I think Crane’s long gone but-”

“Shh.” Bruce sounds horribly tender and Dick doesn’t know why. “Shh. Stay still, I’m going to stop the bleeding.”

He tries to sit up. He doesn’t know why. Stubborn, Papa always called him his stubborn little mule-a-and Bruce just begs to ignored half the time and-

It’s not the glass shard, Dick finally realizes, that’s the cause of all the blood. It’s his shoulder. The mirror ripped his stitches when it broke.

“Batman-”

“Stay awake, Dick.”

“’Kay.” He stays still this time, head lolling towards the door. He can’t talk anymore. His stomach hurts. The pressure Bruce is putting on his shoulder isn’t helping. It’s easier to just. Just rest here, and try to breathe.

And that’s the only reason he sees the man there. Tall, and thin, glasses shining in the gloom. An arm comes up, finger extended to press against unseen lips.

“B-”

Bruce’s head snaps up just as the man’s arms fly out, fog swirling from his fingers. Next thing Dick knows, Bruce’s cape is whipping over his mouth and nose.

It doesn’t do any good. The figure in the doorway grows in height, limbs stretching and contorting into reaching vines. No, no, please-

_It’s not real, it’s not real…_

A vine wraps around his ankle and pulls him away from Bruce, toward that dark hall and that steep, steep staircase and no no please no please he’s sorry he’s so sorry-!

He tries to grab something, _anything_ , and fills his hands with broken glass. The vine chuckles and keeps pulling.

“Batman-!”

And then the darkness swallows him whole.

THE END


	7. Walk Behind the Rows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever you do, don’t walk on graves. S’rude. Go behind them. If you step on one by accident, use whatever manners your momma gave you and say sorry.

“Kitty,” he says, dodges a junebug hurtling towards his glasses (the shine, he’s sure). “I am about to tell you the most important thing you need to know to survive here. Granny-who has, I’m pretty sure, actively prayed for God to strike me dead with a freak falling piano-went out of her way to instill this in me. It. Is. Vital.”

Why is she laughing. She should not be laughing. This is Serious Business and those who disregard it vanish into the Nowhere between Arlen and The Town Over, never to be seen again.

Jonathan sighs, dodges another bug, and risks putting his hands on her shoulders. That is done, yes? There’s no hidden meanings to one person gripping another person’s shoulders? He does not burst into flames or otherwise suffer, so he’s going to have to presume that it is, indeed, an acceptable gesture between…friends. Or acquaintances. Whichever.

“The day will come that someone gives you a glass of sweet tea. Not water, not lemonade, sweet tea. You have to drink it, otherwise something bad happens to you.”

“Something bad happens to me if I don’t drink the tea,” she deadpans. “Jonathan, for heaven’s sake, you are the _last_ person I thought-”

“Fear the elderly. That’s not the important part. No. You can’t look at the tea. Not at the surface. You can look through the glass at it, but don’t look directly down.”

She stares at him, eyebrow raised, and pokes his chest. He’s fairly certain she jabs a bruise, but he doesn’t feel anything. Wasn’t there a black mark on his ribs this morning?

“You’re putting me on.”

“I would _never_.”

“Mm-hm. So you never told me that possums ate people.”

He grins at that one.

“That’s your fault for believing me.”

She huffs, but he figures she’s not too mad when she snags his sleeve and tugs him along down the shady dirt path. It’s still humid. It’s been bad this summer…but he thinks he thinks that every summer.

The cemetery is cool. It’s covered over in trees, is why, but when he was a child-a foolish, foolish child-he was convinced that it was because it was haunted. It isn’t, of course, because that’s nonsense, but still.

It’s empty. It always is. Even when there’s a funeral, everyone meets at church and casseroles are dished out and then, late in the afternoon, the coffin is interred. You know, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t remember ever seeing that part. He must have. He’s been to a fair amount of funerals.

Kudzu’s swallowed half the tombstones in the back, and it’s still creeping forward. Another one will be gone by morning. They’ll be visible again next month, when Gravekeeper Simon comes, grumbling about rheumatism and Devil’s weeds, and rips it out. And then, the month after that, it’ll be back.

“Look at these,” Kitty says, crouching down to the left of one of the still-visible stones. “Looks like someone got dragged in.”

She’s not wrong-there’s deep furrows, just the size of a set of fingers, running from the ground to maybe…oh, he’d say four inches up?

What _are_ those?

He clears away a tendril to read the name. Shudders. This is Granny’s brother’s grave. They don’t visit the family. Well. Not the family here. Her parents, the suicides, are buried on the property-no hallowed ground for them-and he has to keep the plants off their wooden crosses. But the saved relatives, they don’t ever come to see them.

He doesn’t think he wants to, if this is what’s waiting for him.

Although, it would be…amusing…for his namesake to come rambling up the drive one night, all twisted and broken. Probably crawling, really; the boy was crippled, wasn’t he, with that wheelchair that ‘snagged on the rug’ at the top of a steep staircase…

Granny wouldn’t like that family reunion, he’s sure.

“If you’re going to try and scare me, it’s your own fault when you have to carry me home because I fainted,” Kitty threatens, and that…he can’t see that happening if he _tried._ He laughs at her. She scowls at him and gives him an aggressive poke to the shoulder. “I’ll do it! Just you watch me!”

“I’m watching.”

“You haven’t scared me yet.”

He likes this. This…back-and-forth. Friendly verbal tennis. It’s new, is probably what it is, and like any other new-and-not-immediately-unpleasant experience, he’s overly attached to it. That will wane, in time.

“What d’you think caused the scratches?” she’s saying now, leaning awkwardly over to get a closer look. He shrugs, stands up and leans up on tip-toe to swipe a peach from the tree nearby. It looks all right, no wormholes or anything, and he scrubs it off on his sleeve before taking a bite out of it. “Animal?”

“Someone probably walked on the grave.” Speaking of…no, no, he’s not standing on it, and neither is she. Not that he believes that nonsense, but. Manners. “You know what happens when you step on a grave, don’t you?”

“Nothing happens.”

“Kitty!” He presses a hand to his chest, scandalized. “You don’t just step on people’s graves. Folks don’t take kindly to that.”

“Oh, no. The hoard of seniors will get me.”

They may. That is a legitimate concern. But that’s not the story, so shh.

He lowers himself to the ground, peach held firmly in hand, and waits for her to sit up. Build-up and audience participation is an integral part of telling blatant lies, after all.

And it drives her crazy, which means her face gets all brushed with red and turns her into an angry…well…she’s _small_. There’s only so many comparisons he can make.

“Jon-a- _thannn_.” And there it is. “Are you just going to sit there staring at my face? Is there something _on_ my face? Shit-”

He already has a spot in Hell, complete with little nameplate. What more can he do?

He transfers his peach to his other hand, inspects his finger (the bit of peach juice on his fingers), and pokes the tip of her nose.

“Now you do.”

“You’re awful.”

“Yes.” He leans back as she flails at him and points to the grave. “Manners!”

“Humph.” She scrubs her arm across her nose and pouts at him. “Go on, then.”

He’ll get there, he’ll get there. Storytelling is an art, you can’t rush it.

Overhead, a bird chirps. He sees it dive down from the tree and come up with a beetle, legs flailing in its beak.

“Well,” he says at last, “the reason you’re not supposed to walk on somebody’s grave is because they’ll take offense. Now, if you’re lucky, they’ll just follow you home and haunt you for the rest of your life. But if you’re not…”

He takes another bite of peach and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. Don’t blink, that’s the key. Well. One of them.

“If you’re unlucky, or if you stand on it too long, the person inside will come up, and push the dirt out of the way, just enough for their hands to slip through, and then they grab your ankles and drag you down with them.” She scoffs at him. He smiles, that particular condescending one that he knows she hates, and takes the last bite of his peach. “But it’s not over even then, oh, no. They take over your body, so nobody even knows you’re gone, and you’re stuck down there with the worms and the bugs until somebody else comes and steps in just the wrong spot.”

“Lies.” She licks a finger and rubs it across the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got…there.” That was unexpected. Not unappreciated, just…unexpected. “The caretaker probably steps on one from time to time, and besides, it’s not possible.”

Never let it be said that Jonathan Crane is anything less than an opportunist.

“You wouldn’t think so, would you?” He flops back, careful to avoid a mound of leaves, and looks up at the sky. Perfect, paint-worthy blue. You’d never guess it’s stickier than a pot of syrup out here. “I would have preferred the caretaker, myself, but he’s always so careful…watches where he puts his feet, you know.”

She’s stiffened, just a little bit, and he glances at the distance from her ankle to his hand. She’s not _quite_ on a grave, but she’s not paying attention, either.

“Seriously-”

“This one, though…” He gestures at himself. “Running blind, not watching where he was going, trampled _right over_ me and woke me up.”

“Don’t be a goose.”

“It’s his own fault. Besides, no I can avenge my tragic murder…”

“Really, Jonathan.” She rolls her eyes at him. “If you expect me to believe-FUCK-!”

He bursts out laughing and draws his hand off her ankle. He may deserve the swat to the knee, but it’s worth it and he does not care.

“Boo.”

“You are a horrible boy,” she says, face somehow both red and pale at the same time. “You scared me half to death. Half. To. _Death_.”

“You would have gotten a proper burial,” he points out. “You could share with my great-great-uncle here.”

She twists around, reads the name, and twists back.

“Are you serious.”

“Uh-huh.” He sits up, tosses the peach pit into the bushes, and wipes his glasses off again. “I wasn’t kidding about the tragic bit-I think someone pushed him down the stairs.”

“Nice. Very nice.”

Given his family track record, his namesake was probably horrible. Who knows, really, but it’s statistically likely. They’re a…a bent family. Odd.

_Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way._

He stretches out, tips his head back until he sees the Grey Lady way off in the back of the cemetery. The vines never touch her, and he’s not sure why. Probably something in the stone, a natural repellant of some kind. Or something of that nature, anyway.

“Let’s go back to my house,” Kitty says suddenly. “Mum got an ice cream maker last week.”

In this heat? He’d maim a man for ice cream.

They get up and head back, and if they’re both careful to walk behind the tombstones on the way out, well. It’s only good manners.

THE END

 


	8. Pumpkins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a few stories about the beloved Jack-o-Lantern, but one of them is that they’re meant to scare away evil spirits. They don't work on Batman, unfortunately, but they work on civilians!

Bruce eyes the quite frankly unreasonable amount of plastic pumpkins on the porch and wonders how many of them have fear toxin inside.

It’s a reasonable concern. This isn’t even an apartment rented under false names, oh, no. It is literally an abandoned (probably not by choice) drugstore smack-dab in the middle of downtown Gotham. They’re not even _trying_ to be subtle. It’s a miracle the pharmacist isn’t hanging in the window.

There’s a ‘Closed’ sign on the door and Bruce resists the urge to pull the cowl back and rub his temples. Some nights…some nights he’s absolutely willing to crash through a skylight in a cloud of bats. Others? It takes everything in him not to kick down the door and ask, with no real care in his words, ‘why are you the way you are’.

It’s hard to be Batman.

He’s tired tonight. It is December-why are they out so soon?-it is starting to snow, _again_ , and he wants nothing more than to go home and enjoy a hot tea with honey and then go to bed. But no. _These_ two just _had_ to break out of Arkham.

Why.

He scowls at the pumpkins. They grin back at him, lights inside making them look like they’re laughing. He’ll take those for testing, later, but right now he has bigger fish to fry.

He may as well get this over with.

His cape-his traitorous, traitorous cape-wraps around him and tries to pin his arms to his sides. He smacks it back behind him where it belongs and decides that yes, he will kick this door open. There’s no skylight here anyway.

**BAM!**

The ‘Closed’ sign flies off somewhere when the door hits the wall. Bruce doesn’t care.

The pharmacy is dark inside and apart from the pumpkins, there’s no sign of anyone here. That means nothing. Scarecrow thrives in dark, empty-looking buildings, after all.

He goes down the seasonal aisle, nearly tripping over a light-up reindeer that’s fallen off the shelf. Or been put there…

He inspects it. It has bells on its neck, and a cartoony grin that reminds him uncomfortably of the Joker.

He shoves it back onto the shelf and moves on.

It’s not quite dark inside-a flickering light (glowing fear toxin?) is peeking out from the employee break room. He’s just reaching for the doorknob when Richardson shouts, “You stupid chit, _don’t leave the knife!_ ”

“Every time…” Crane sounds exasperated. “Or they trip. Or drop the car keys. Or-”

There’s a scream and Bruce kicks the door down.

…

The light is a television. Crane and Richardson are lounging on a couch that looks like it’s been rescued from a Goodwill, half-bent forward to yell at the screen. A half-gone bottle of vodka sits on the floor.

Bruce is very confused.

“Big Bat!” Richardson waves. “Move _over_ -sit! We’re having a marathon.”

He feels a headache coming on. Crane twisting (and twisting and _twisting_ -he’s not even trying and it’s unsettling) around to look at him is not helping.

“How did you get in?”

Bruce looks at the vodka again and resists the urge to throw his hands in the air and walk away. On-screen, Michael Myers tumbles out of a window.

“Let’s go.”

“You need to deeee-stress,” Crane says carefully, tongue clearly awkward in his mouth. “Sit.”

Is this how Alfred feels? Alfred deserves a holiday.

“You’re going back to Arkham,” he growls. “You can come quietly, or I can give you both a concussion.”

“We didn’t even kill anyone!” Richardson protests. “Well, okay, there was that Arkham guard-”

_“Shh.”_

“-but other than that one, and he shouldn’t have been working there anyway-”

“I would have fired him,” Crane agrees.

“-so reeeaallly, this is perfectly legal and you can’t re-arrest us.”

Dick and Jason have been watching something called _The Office_ , and characters like to gaze into the camera when exasperated. Bruce understands that urge, now. He won’t give into it, but he understands it.

“What’s in the pumpkins outside.”

They blink at him. Crane’s the one, in the end, who says, “Some idiot kept pounding on the door. Those were in the back, we thought they might fend off people who can’t read the damned ‘Closed’ sign.”

Bruce doesn’t close his eyes. That would be suicide. But he considers it all the same.

“We are leaving,” he says, stalks forward and grabs the pair of them by the necks of their drugstore hoodies. There’s no struggle. He cuffs them anyway, for safety.

He is going home after this, he decides. He is going straight home and right to bed, never mind the tea. But first, because he doesn’t trust them in the least, he has to load the pumpkins into the car.

They’re asleep by the time he’s done, and perhaps it’s petty, but he takes the most pothole-riddled road he can find on the way back to Arkham.

THE END


	9. Do No Harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sickbed must be placed with the head facing north and the feet facing south. Gaslights ‘verse.

If Jonathan sees one more novel describe an invalid’s ‘delicate cough’ and ‘rosy cheeks’ as _charming_ , he is going to personally hunt the author down and murder them in the most painful manner he can conceive.

The doctor is under the impression that Kitty will recover. At least, he claims he’s under that impression. Admittedly, Jonathan had been…looming, a little, but it’s hardly his fault he’s tall. And it’s only somewhat his fault he’d been standing in just the right place for the firelight to make him look a tad more imposing than he might otherwise.

But he sounded convincing enough, and Jonathan has little reason to believe otherwise. Kitty’s come downstairs for the first time in several days. The journey wore her out, but she’d managed it. He’s not particularly confident that she can get back up there on her own, but they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

“What are you doing?”

“Grading.” This class, at least, is marginally more intelligent than the last one. Barring that little fool Sessions, who sits in the back. Jonathan may or may not have it in for him, just a little. He _interrupts_ , and he either cannot or will not remember the differences between _their, they’re,_ and _there._ “So far, they’re not failing.”

“Please say that’s not your goal.”

“It isn’t. But I’m going to go easy on them, either.” She laughs, and for once it doesn’t devolve into a coughing fit. He reaches over to tap her teacup anyway. “Sip.”

“This tastes like death,” she complains. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to poison me.”

“I would never.”

“It’s not like you don’t have experience.”*

It takes a moment for that to sink in, but when it does, he’s forced to set his pen and papers aside to muffle his laughter. When he finally composes himself and looks up, she’s grinning at him from behind her teacup.

“You don’t smile as much as you used to,” she says softly. “I wish you would.”

There really isn’t much to say to that, is there.

He reaches over and brushes his knuckles across her cheekbones (warm, but cooler than they’ve been over the past few days, it’s something).

“Smiling hurts.”

“You’re too young to be a bitter old man.” She sets her cup aside and closes the distance between them. “You’re not even grey yet.”

He puts on the frailest, elderliest voice he can and wheezes, “In myyyyy dayyyy-”

“Stoppit.” She gives him a weak shove. “I didn’t marry an old man.”

“Hrm.” There’s the sound of something heavy being moved upstairs and he frowns, tilts backwards in an effort to see through the ceiling. “What in the world…”

“The girls were going to air things out,” Kitty says. “Since I’d be down here for a little while.”

“That doesn’t sound like airing things out.”

“Leave them alone, it doesn’t sound like anything’s broken, either.”

Humph.

All the same, she’s not wrong. He pulls his papers back over and resumes going through them…ah, finally _someone_ who’s been paying attention. Blatant cozying up, but he’s willing to be forgiving. At least for the moment, anyway.

He’s just correcting another improper _their_ (why is _this boy_ in _his_ class? Why?) when Kitty yawns and leans over to nestle against his shoulder.

“You should be lying down,” he murmurs, taking off his glasses and rubbing his nose. He needs to tweak them again…they’re too _tight_. “I’m sure they’re done by now.”

“I don’t want to.”

That may be, but she’s starting to shiver despite the fire and the blanket and the (now-mostly-gone) tea. Which is why he really only has one option-to set his papers and pen to the side, stand up, and pick her up despite her protests.

“Jonathan, Jonathan put me down. Put me down, I can walk-Jonathan! Jonathan Crane-”

Well, she’s certainly capable of struggling more than she was last week. Last week, she’d outright asked him to carry her.

She stops fussing about halfway up the stairs in favor of wrapping her arms around his neck and grumbling, “I’m not going to let go until you take me back downstairs.”

“Is that so?”

“Mm-hm.” One hand slips up so it’s flat against the back of his head, fingers tangled in his hair (too long, he needs to trim it soon) and she tilts her head back, frowns at a picture. “Where did we get that one?”

“Housewarming.” It truly is a hideous piece, but it came from her great-aunt, a horror of a woman whose married name was Trunchbull but who was usually just referred to as ‘Aunt Bull’. Jonathan’s sure she dressed up as a man and fought in the War. “Your great-aunt.”

“Oh.” She looks vaguely horrified. “We’re stuck with it until she dies.”

“She won’t.”

He opens the door to their room, pauses, and tries to figure out what’s wrong. Um. Nothing’s missing, that he can see. The window’s open, a little, but that’s how things are aired out. So…

The bed. The bed is facing the complete opposite direction that it was this morning.

“What on…” His eyebrows furrow without his consent and he pokes his head back into the hallway. “Miss Clancy! Miss O’Hara! Come here!”

“Jonathan, be nice.”

“I didn’t ask for furniture movers, and neither did you!”

“Still…”

The girls appear from down the hall, eyes wide but not overly fearful. He’ll be changing that at the earliest opportunity, so help him-

“What is this?”

O’Hara is the bolder of the two, and she’s the one who pipes up.

“That’s how sickbeds are s’posed to be, sir,” she says, and no, she is…unnerved, at least, he’d spot a vocal tremor like that a mile off. “Otherwise it’s a grave. Ev’rybody knows that.”

Clancy nods. Really. Lord help him, he’s hired a pair of superstitious little _fools_ , if he finds one crucifix, _just_ one-!

His fingers twitch and he sets Kitty gently on the ground before pointing behind him.

“Unless one of us asks you to rearrange the furniture, I expect you both to _leave things where they are-_ ”

“Jonathan.” Kitty puts her hand on his arm. “It’s fine. It’s a better view, anyhow, bit of a change.”

“But-”

“They meant well. It’s all right.”

Fine. But the principle still galls him. He’d hoped that burying the old crone would also mean burying the nonsense she clung to so dearly.

“Don’t do it again,” he grinds out. “Go on about your work.”

They scatter. He doesn’t realize he’s trying to incinerate their heads from a distance until Kitty leans up and turns his head towards her.

“It’s fine, love,” she says softly. “It really is. Besides, maybe there’s something to it. Angle of the sun, or something.”

Humph. Maybe. Unlikely, but he’ll go along with it for now. It’s harmless, anyhow, and that’s the important thing.

“As long as they don’t start insisting that spider leg tea is the magical cure…”

“I’m half-convinced that’s what you give me,” she says, and promptly shrieks when he scoops her up and plunks her on the bed.

“You’ve caught me out. It’s spider legs, cricket wings, and human blood.”

“You’re awful.” She catches his sleeve. “Stay for a few minutes, hm? You don’t have class tomorrow.”

No, no he doesn’t. And he is sorely considering murdering that idiot Sessions…perhaps a break from his stupidity will ensure his continued survival.

“Are you up for a round of chess?”

“If you don’t let me win.”

He doesn’t, is the sad thing.

“Let me go and get it. And another cup of tea, while I’m down.”

“Hold the arsenic!” she calls after him. Really…

The bed may stay where it is. A change of view may prove to be beneficial, and if he’s going to be honest with himself, there were times, last month, that he’d considered, a little seriously, returning to church.

Now, where is that cinnamon…?

THE END

 

* _Gaslights_ Crane poisoned Granny with a heaping helping of strychnine.


	10. Good Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t wake the sleepwalker!

Once he’d outgrown that scrawny-potato look that babies all have, Jonathan had-much to Mary’s irritation-taken after the Keeny side of the family. Well. Mostly. Enough, unfortunately, that calling him a stray charity case was an impossibility.

Humph.

He was such a serious child, flat-voiced and unblinking behind thick lenses. Nothing like Marion, or even Karen-the girls had been prone to giggling, something she had detested at the time and now looked back on with some sense of fondness. She wasn’t sure what to _do_ with the boy-she was too old, now, to be raising another child, let alone such an odd one. It had taken her several months, after he really started developing a personality, to figure out what was so off with him, but when she finally hit upon it, she wanted to either shake him or kick herself, whichever was easier.

He had her eyes, those distinct, fairy-story blue eyes that even Marion hadn’t inherited. All babies have blue eyes, and she hadn’t paid his any mind, at first, supposing that they would darken up over time. But they hadn’t.

She wasn’t sure what that bothered her so much, but it did. Her father and siblings had shared that eye color, that might have been it. Jonathan looked nothing like his namesake, apart from that, but what a feature to inherit…

The other thing that the boy seemed to have gotten from her side of the family was an unfortunate one-sleepwalking. She’d had a bout of it herself, around seven years of age, and she remembered her sister breaking her ankle on the staircase when she’d drifted downstairs in an unseeing doze.

The first time it had happened, it had been mild, though it had terrified her no end. She had woken up for reasons unknown, shortly after midnight, and, upon wondering if an animal had made its way into the manor, sat up to light a candle. And Jonathan had just _been_ there, not a foot from her bed, staring at her with glassy eyes.

“What are you doing in here?”

She’d thought, at first, that he was ill. He was a sickly child-no doubt thanks to his mother’s lack of care-and as tempting as it had been, once, to let that run of scarlet fever (of _course_ that, he couldn’t just suffer a sore throat without complications, oh no) do what it would. But she didn’t, and couldn’t, really, and here they were.

“Jonathan.”

No blinking, no words, and _then_ Mary had recalled that family oddity. Waking him was out of the question, but he was not permitted to stand there and stare like one of the stuffed bird downstairs. So she got up, gripped his arm, and steered him back to bed. And there he had stayed, stumbling down the next morning with no recollection of the incident.

It had been infrequent, after that, though once she’d found him out in the fields at two in the morning* and had taken to locking him in his room for a few nights. Eventually, it had waned completely.

At least, until he was sixteen, taller than her but easily cowed all the same. Thankfully-if he’d gotten it in his head to truly defy her, there was nothing she could do about it.

Mary wasn’t sleeping as much, then. She didn’t need to. So she was awake, and downstairs with a cup of tea, when Jonathan drifted past the parlor like a ghost.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

When he didn’t answer-the gall!-she set her tea aside, heaved her old bones out of the chair, and made her way after him, mouth poised to give him enough of a tongue-lashing to keep him in bed for the rest of his miserable _life_. He had made his way to the kitchen by the time she caught up with him.

“Jonathan Crane-”

“S’a minute, Granny…”

Oh. She knew that miles-underwater, far-off speech pattern. It was nearly a miracle that he got down here without hurting himself, but she wasn’t not at all sure she could get him back up all those stairs with the same result.

She intended to do nothing more than guide him away from the knife block, but he’d become a light sleeper these days; her fingers had scarcely wrapped around his wrist when he reeled back, tripped over his own feet, and wound up on the floor.

Mary’s first thought, barely audible in her own head over her pounding heart, was, _this isn’t my fault._ Her second was a grimmer, _he’s not bleeding, is he?_

He was not. He was alive and well, and awake, panting and clearly confused. He didn’t look overly harmed, either-likely bruised from the fall, but nothing more than that. He was lucky, then. Her accidental awakening hadn’t done any damage-unless it had addled his wits…

“Jonathan,” she said sharply (it wasn’t concern, it was irritation for taking this nonsense up again and disrupting her tea). “Get up.”

“Granny?”

Recognition, a good sign.

“Get off the floor,” she said instead, nudging his foot with her cane to encourage movement. It worked; he scrambled upright, brushing frantically at his pajamas, and finally seemed to take stock of where he was.

“I…what time is it?”

“Late. March yourself back to bed and _stay_ in it this time.”

“Sorry, Granny.”

“You should be.” Her heart was still pounding much too hard and fast for a woman of her age. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

It was the dark, that was all, that made his expression look so… _furious_. When he moved his head, it was smoothed over, blank as ever. Normal.

“Good night,” he said stiffly. She stepped aside and watched him go, lanky figure ambling up the stairs like a living scarecrow. Once she’d heard his door close behind him, she made her way back to the parlor, found her tea to be cold, and decided she may as well go to bed herself.

She checked her room for vermin (ghostly boys) and locked the door behind her. The last thing she wanted was to wake from a sound sleep to Jonathan looming over her again.

And if she stayed awake for a good part of the night, listening for the opening of a door, well, she was an old woman. She didn’t need as much sleep as she once had.

THE END

*I was a sleepwalker, and my parents took to shoving the loveseat in front of the back door because I kept trying to open it.


	11. Meow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black cats are bad luck. (I had a black cat. No abnormal bad luck, but he was a raging asshole.)

Jonathan has no opinion one way or the other on Selina Kyle. They run in different circles, more often than not. She wants to rob rich men blind, he wants to frighten said rich men to death…differing goals, is all. Nothing personal.

Well. Mostly, anyway. Tonight? He absolutely has an opinion, and it can be best summed up as-

“I’ll wring her neck!” Kitty’s seething, fingers tight on the gearshift. He’d be driving, she’s terrible with stick, but he’s currently nursing a gunshot wound in his shoulder and shifting is just asking for pain and suffering. “Just you watch me, I’ll get that damned whip of hers and choke the life out of her!”

**_Can we watch? Can we have popcorn?_ **

_Mm-hm._

The gunshot wound is partially Selina’s fault. Actually, it’s ninety-nine-percent her fault. She didn’t pull the trigger, but she’s the one who tripped the alarm (ON PURPOSE) and brought security down on them. Said security is dead now, but she escaped in the confusion.

He knows why. Ms. Agatha Starlin was very wealthy, which would have drawn her there. Unfortunately, she also owes (owed, now, he’ll consider them even) Jonathan a great deal of money. She’d broken from Sionis shortly after the Red Hood crashed through the man’s warehouse skylight and decided to make it on her own. Jonathan had been willing, for a time or two, to sell her a…special…blend of heroin, but that little fool had tried to get out of having to pay him. Tsk, tsk.

And so they had paid her a house call to discuss a new arrangement. But not only had Selina been present, Ms. Starlin had been babysitting her niece that evening, and Selina, ever the soft-hearted busybody, had tripped the alarm before they could use the girl for leverage.

…

Yes, this may also have to do with the Incident two months ago, but that’s neither here nor there.

Whatever the case, Ms. Starlin is currently screaming in her study and they are gone. Kitty’s only hit one pedestrian, and, really, they should have gotten out of the way faster. They were jaywalking.

“You’re not going to bleed out and die, are you?”

“No.” He reclines the seat as far as it will go and peels his hand off his shoulder a bit to see. Still bleeding, but not as badly. “Your sweater is done for.”

“I’d rather have you than the sweater.”

**_Gack._ **

_Nobody asked your opinion._

**_‘Nobody asked your opinion’,_** Scarecrow mocks, and if Jonathan closes his eyes, he can see an incredibly judgmental Jack-o-Lantern behind his lids. **_Nobody asked your opinion on my opinion._**

Ignoring him is the best option.

Jonathan closes his eyes and looks forward to painkillers. And, later, tracking down Ms. Selina Kyle and making her regret ever thinking that was a good idea. But he’ll give that some time. Lie low, let her regain a sense of security.

At least, if Kitty doesn’t track her down first. And that…all right, he’ll admit it, the Catwoman being murdered by a Kitty holds a delicious amount of irony.

He’s just entertaining visions skinning the Cat when there’s a hearty **CRA-ASH!** and they come to a screeching halt.

Batman is on the hood of the car.

“Come on!” Kitty screeches. “You run one red light-so help me-”

The windshield wipers have been turned on in the excitement. Jonathan idly notices that they’re slowly cracking every time they bump against Batman’s boots.

**“Get out of the car.”**

No. He doesn’t want to. He’s been shot, he’s entitled to sit here.

He very deliberately checks to make sure his seat belt’s buckled. Kitty just flips the man off.

“Get off my car!”

Do they deserve to be dragged out into the street? No. Is that what happens? Yes. Yes, it is. Jonathan gets his painkillers, though, and he’s settled semi-comfortably in Medical when he notices a very particular get-well-card, tucked behind the others.

It’s shaped like a black cat-Halloween card?-and there’s no signature. He scowls at it, rips the head off, and drops it back on the table. One of these days, he’ll kill her. Slowly and painfully, and he’ll send the pieces back to Batman in a box, just you watch.

THE END


	12. God Bless You!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneezing is a Big Deal. Saying ‘God Bless You’, depending on your beliefs, means: ‘plague protection’, ‘soul, get back into your body’, or ‘don’t be possessed!’ among others.

Kitty has the stomach flu. Jonathan legitimately feels sorry for her. Stomach flu is a special kind of evil. But at least it’s the kind that remains at the ‘queasy’ level if she doesn’t eat anything.

“I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” he says absently, eying a smudge on his glasses and wondering what he did to deserve it. “Tea?”

“Robin’s head on a platter.”

Maybe one day, but not in the near future. Batman’s keeping this new one on a tight leash. Pity.

“I don’t think I can manage that one today.” Where is that cleaning cloth…? “Have you drunk anything in the last hour?”

“Yes, water, ten minutes ago.”

His cleaning cloth is nowhere to be found, and his shirt is just the wrong material to be useful. He frowns, looks around the room, and notices that Kitty is wearing a soft, cotton t-shirt. Perfect. He doesn’t even have to get up!

He takes his glasses off, rolls over, and catches the hem of the nearest sleeve-wait. Wait, wait, wait, this. Was. _His._ No wonder he never has clean shirts!

Never mind. It may not be on him, but it can still clean his glasses.

He scrubs them off-ahh, much better-and pretends not to notice that she’s staring at him in disbelief.

“Really.”

“What?”

“I’m dying, and you use me as a cleaning cloth.”

“That was my shirt, once.”

“…fair- _ah-choo!_ ”

“Bless you.”

She sniffles, mutters something about ‘better not be a cold’ and slides out of bed to shuffle to the bathroom.

_“Ah-chee!”_

“If you sneeze again, we have to call for an exorcism,” he calls. Then he happens to look up in time to see a loving middle finger. He may deserve that.

The finger drops and she bolts suddenly, flinging the bathroom door open and dropping to her knees in front of the toilet. Ah. That water isn’t going to stay down, after all.

He grimaces, gets up, and goes to…hover, maybe. Her hair’s already pulled back in the tightest ponytail she can stand, so she doesn’t need him for that, but he can…he doesn’t know. Express sympathy, like she did last week when it was his turn.

The heaving turns to shuddering hiccups and he doesn’t _really_ register what that means until-

_“Ah-chug!”_

Well. This is a, ah, a new development. He hadn’t been aware it was physically possible to sneeze out vomit. It makes sense, he supposes, but he’d never really thought about it.

“Bless you,” he says, handing her a wet washcloth. And then, because she’s too sick to do anything about it and it might take her mind off it, “You look like girl from _The Exorcist._ ”

She coughs, spits a few times, and rubs the bridge of her nose with a low groan.

“I want to do the head-spin,” she moans, head plunking against the edge of the seat. “That’s at least a decent trade.”

“If Batman drops in, you could projectile-vomit onto him,” he says. “All up?”

“Nothing to come up.”

He’ll take that as a yes.

“Come on, then. Back to bed.”

THE END **  
**


	13. Cleanse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The internet tells me that in Ecuador, on New Year’s, they burn scarecrow-esque effigies to get a fresh start. These range from people to characters and apparently this started after a plague-they burned the departed’s clothes. Smart choice.
> 
> Scary Scarecrows does not recommend burning scarecrows in Gotham. IT AIN’T WORTH IT.

Jonathan isn’t sure which irritates him more: being burnt in effigy (the people should be AFRAID, not provoking his wrath on PURPOSE) or Joker’s incessant cackling.

Somebody. Is going. To die.

The first to go, he thinks, is the Arkham official who either couldn’t or wouldn’t regulate the damn television. First of all, the television is unnecessary and unhealthy. It causes fights, frequently very physical ones. (Joker still has scratches from when he tried to change Ivy’s plant documentary to cartoons. Jonathan will admit that seeing her attempting to, in her words, ‘claw that grin off’ had been…entertaining. Especially because Harley took one look and left.)

Second of all, parental controls exist. No news. No less than twelve of them have broken out of Arkham due to the news showing something unflattering.

Yes, he decides, forcing a bland smile and settling further into the couch. Somebody is going to die. Probably multiple somebodies.

Jervis Tetch has the audacity to snigger, just a little. Jonathan knows he should be nice to the man. He’s barely up and about after his…surgery.* It’s likely that the laughter is at least partially brought on by the painkillers he’s on.

But he brought that on himself. So Jonathan doesn’t have to feel bad when he leans over, cups the back of his head, and slams it into the arm of the couch.

You don’t have to suffer the Unbirthday song in solitary, after all.

* * *

“Really,” Kitty says, inspecting the man on the ground. “Really. _How?_ ”

“Twitter,” he says smugly. The man on the ground squirms. Not so brave now, is he? Big man, starting the effigy-burning while he was tucked away in Arkham. Not so much now that he’s been trussed up like a Christmas goose. “Such a useful invention…outs the idiots.”

“Hrm.” Kitty crouches down and pokes the unfortunate individual. He was easy to find. Some foolish college boy trying to rile the masses, fancied himself a master of psychological manipulation. And, to add true insult to injury, the boy is a _Freudian._ If Jonathan had pearls to clutch, he’d have done it scrolling through the Twitter account. Is this what modern medicine is coming to? Is it? “Was it really necessary to take his foot off?”

“Yes.”

The look she throws him says she doesn’t believe that. It doesn’t matter. It was very necessary. The brat was sleeping, he needed to wake up in a timely manner.

Besides, it was a clean amputation. He’ll survive, and be lucid, for the next little while. It doesn’t need to be for weeks or anything, just a few days.

“At least he won’t run.”

“No. No, he won’t.”

Now, where, oh, where did he leave that old costume…? He knows it’s around here somewhere, he made sure before he went out…ah! There it is, hat and all.

…Scarecrow had had far too much creative control. The hat had proven to be a menace anyway, visible at the _worst_ possible times.

He shakes the clothes out, watches a spider scurry off into the corner, and lays them out next to Mister Rabble-Rouser. Mister Rouser attempts to bring his knees up, likely to protect his newly-acquired stump, and Jonathan frowns.

“Stop that, I need to see how much hemming I need to do.”

“MMPH-”

“Oh, for-shut up.”

**CLUNK!**

There is a reason cartoon characters favor frying pans. They really, really hurt. And they do well as a stunner. They won’t knock you out-well, not in one hit-but they daze, make you nice and cooperative.

“Thank you, Kitty.”

“Mm.” She leans over to kiss his cheek. “Oh, you’re getting stubble.”

“I know.” He wrinkles his nose and straightens the pants. “It’s itchy.”

It also has a habit of snagging against the damn mask, but that’s a little tidbit he’ll be keeping to himself.

**_You are useless._ **

_Shut up._

**_TAKE YOUR BURLAP-SNAGGING LIKE A MAN!_ **

_I think I’ll just shave._

Well, barring the abnormally, hah, short left leg, the pants can actually just be rolled a bit. The shirt needs help-the arms are too long by far too many inches, and it looks like he needs to let out a stitch or ten up by the shoulders…yes, yes…just there…or maybe…hang on…

He settles down cross-legged and drags the sewing basket over. There is chalk in there somewhere, he knows there is, it’s just a matter of finding it. And _where_ is that tape measure?

This is going to be perfect.

* * *

It’s laughably easy to invade a news station in the middle of the day. Especially when one knows that Two-Face is robbing a bank and therefore keeping the GCPD very busy.

Mister Rouser is doing less than stellar this fine Monday afternoon, but that’s all right. His suffering will end soon.

Jonathan’s got everything on him save the mask and hat, and he’s quite pleased with the results. Mister Rouser is a little shorter and rounder, yes, but when one is dressed in rags, that doesn’t matter. He does, now, resemble a scarecrow. Enough on one, anyway, for this little exercise.

“Good afternoon, Gotham.” Manners are important. “And how are you on this warm, sunny day? Comfortable? Relaxed, a little lazy?”

“Mm…”

“Sh.” He jabs Mister Rouser with the handle of his scythe. “Wait your turn.” He turns back to the camera, leans against the newscaster’s desk. “What you see here, Gotham, is a fool. You may remember last month’s ‘cleansing’, hm? An attempt to symbolically free yourselves from **_monsters_** such as myself?” He adjusts his glasses and forces a smile. It doesn’t feel very…smile-y…but oh, well. “I quite liked the idea behind it. Gotham should be cleansed. **_Cleansed of idiots!_** ”

_Really._

**_I love being on camera. You know I do._ **

Jonathan twists around, picks up the mask and hat, and crouches down next to Mister Rouser.

“This,” he says, throat a little sore now, “is the one who got that movement started! Say hello!”

“MMPH!”

“Good enough. Say goodbye.”

“MMPH!”

“He’s a little camera-shy.” He wishes he had a laugh track. Just…just to have one. No matter. “Let’s finish your make-up, shall we?”

Getting the mask on a struggling man is harder than you’d think. But he manages it, and then proceeds to attach the big, floppy hat with the help of a stapler sitting on the desk. There. All ready.

**_Pleeeeeaaaaaaase?_ **

_Oh, all right._

Scarecrow lunges for the gas canister. No one ever gets that fear gas is _flammable_. So why not kill two birds with one stone? **HUP-**

**Slosh-slosh!**

The poor sucker thrashes and screams behind his gag as the toxin hits his clothes. Once the canister’s empty, Scarecrow yanks his own mask on, ignoring Jonny’s whining about ‘scratched lenses’. It’s fine. These are the crap-glasses, anyway.

Matches, matches-MATCHES.

He lights one as delicately as possible, bends at the waist, and drops it. There’s a minute, maybe two, that it just…sits there, flickering desperately like it wants to go out.

**FWOOSH!**

The fire moves fast, thick smoke given a yellow sheen thanks to the fear toxin creating it. Scarecrow moves closer to the door. HE’S not going to be the idiot that got caught in his own blaze.

Screams of fear and screams of pain are very different. What little he can hear sounds like a blissful combo of both. And the best part? IT’S ON FILM!

The fire spreads to the carpet and Scarecrow ducks out the door and heads for the elevator. It’s past his bedtime, and he’s tired.

THE END

*Those wondering what happened to Jervis may journey to ‘Beware the Jabberwock’, located in _Cigarette Smoke & Snark._

**HE HAD IT COMING! HE HAD IT COMING! HE ONLY HAD HIMSELF TO BLAAAAAME!-J.T.**


	14. Murderous Philanthropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …if I could remember a snippet of vampire lore, it’s here. That’s it. That’s the superstition. Vampire. This is not canon. This is so far from canon that it exists in a universe where Bruce’s parents never died and Jason Todd is happy. It’s practically crack-no. No, it is crack. I own that. I got like, two hours of sleep and it seemed like a good idea. So. Get in, losers. We’re going vampire hunting.
> 
> Sorry for the delay-my laptop sometimes needs a full reset because it’s…kind of a POS…and that takes a bit. This is nice and long, though, so I don’t feel that bad.

“Really, Oswald. Really.”

“Get in the car.”

Jonathan looks at the sleek black hearse-never let it be said that Oswald Cobblepot has no sense of humor-and raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to.”

Oswald fixes him with the most unimpressed face Jonathan has ever seen and drawls, “Did I ask? Get in.”

“You dragged me out of my house for this? I have papers to grade!”

Oswald raises a bottle of what looks like rosé.

“Hurry up.”

“Why do I have to go?”

“You’re the resident vampire expert.”

Sadly, he can’t argue with that. Granny, in her day, had been…formidable. She used to use him as bait, and he won’t lie, when she finally got bit and had to be taken down, he’d enjoyed it more than he probably ought to have, but he learned much from her.

“Do none of you have Google?”

“Too much misinformation. Get in.”

A back window rolls down and Kitty and Harley stick their heads out.

“Get in, Jonny, it’ll be fun!” Harley says, snapping her gum. Kitty snorts.

“We could die without you.”

“It would serve you right,” he says, fixing his eyes on somewhere over her head and wondering why he’s suddenly nervous. There’s no reason to be nervous. So there’s more people in the car. So what? Harley gasps and elbows Kitty in the ribs.

“Jonny! How _could_ you?”

“I have grading to do-”

The door opens and Kitty leans out, grips his scarf, and yanks on it. He loses his footing and stumbles partially into the car.

“Drive! Drive away!”

“Kitty-!”

She scoots to the other side of the car, grinning like she didn’t just help kidnap him, and bats her eyelashes. He wishes she wouldn’t. He doesn’t know what it means or how to respond to it.

“Oh, come on. It’s daytime, it’ll be sleeping.”

“It can still wake up and murder us all.”

“See, that’s why you had to come!” Kitty says brightly. “Google lies.”

Google does lie, he’ll admit. But they are prepared-Harley’s holding a Super Soaker with crosses doodled on the side that he figures has Holy Water inside, there’s a grocery bag of garlic on the floor of the vehicle, and…

Yes. That is a flamethrower. Right, then-no. Oh, no. Oh, _God_ , Edward Nygma is driving. _Now_ he understands the true meaning of, ‘Jesus, take the wheel!’

He’s trapped here, now. Especially because Harley’s climbed over him, shoved him into the middle seat, and leaned against the other door.

Why do the only people he knows and only sometimes dislikes have to be the most murderous philanthropists on the planet? Vampire plague strikes Gotham Cemetery? ‘Oh, good, time to stake a bitch’ (Harley’s exact words).

“Who is it.” He may as well settle in for a day of digging. But he’s not digging. They kidnapped him, they can dig up the grave. “Tell me we’re not just going to wander around a graveyard until we find a nice, fresh body to stake.”

Oswald twists around, rosé still firmly in his hand, and says, in a voice befitting a crime lord rather than…well, actually, he’s on his way to crime lord, never mind…, “Jack Napier, lousy stand-up comedian, ran afoul of the Joker, rose from the grave to suck blood and continue his mission of making the worst jokes known to man.” He takes a long drink. “He came after me last night. I distracted him with poppy seeds, but he still found time to ask me, _and I quote_ , ‘how many GCPD does it take to change a lightbulb? It only takes one Batman!’” Oswald laughs mockingly, and a little hysterically. “There’s nothing worse than a bloodsucker with no sense of humor.”

“Lies!” Edward sings, followed by a furious, “Riddle-me-this, what do you call the fool that cuts me off? _Deceased_.”

“Aww, relax, Eddums. We’re all alive.”

“God knows how…” Jonathan’s beginning to get a headache. “Did someone bring a hacksaw?”

“Better.” Kitty reaches under the seat. “We brought a chainsaw. It was twenty percent off.”

He knows it’s terrible, but he really does love to watch her dismember a man. He’ll never admit it, but if he were a photographer, he could do a whole series on that alone.

Up front, Edward is tailgating an antique. Oswald sighs, hangs out the window, and barks something about arranging for a pair of purple cement pumps for the driver’s mother. The driver switches lanes.

“This is really your fault, Harls,” Kitty’s saying, fingers pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket. “Smoke?”

“Please.” He needs something to deal with the commotion in the front seat.

“Sure-shit, this is my last one. Share?”

Share? As in, share-share? Um. Well. He’s. He’s not above it, in extenuating circumstances, but, ah…

Harley shakes her head, pops her gum, and chirps, “He shouldn’t have tried to rip off my puddin’! I tried to tell ‘im.”

Thank God that Harley’s puddin’ is nowhere to be seen. It’s the little things that make the world go ‘round…

“Still. You’re the one indulging the clown thing.”

“So I got a thing for guys in lipstick. Don’t judge. You’ve got the blood-spattered-nerd thing, ‘member _Sleepy Hollow-_ ”

That is a new tidbit of information. He’s a little scared of it. Only a little.

“We all have a blood-spattered-nerd thing,” Oswald proclaims from the front seat. Edward preens and immediately takes two fingers to the side of the neck. “Shut up and drive.”

“You shut up and drive!”

_“You’re in the way.”_

Kitty passes him the cigarette and he takes it out of habit, inhales nicotine and smoke and a hint of cherry lipstick before remembering that they are sharing it.

Hopefully she runs low more often. This is. Not the worst thing in the world.

“Oz!” Harley calls. “Share the wine!”

Yes, please. Please share the wine.

* * *

Oswald does not share the wine. He tucks it back into its bucket when they get there and then, just like that, he’s in murder-mode.

Well, not really murder. But it’s the best description Jonathan can come up with, and besides, he’s sure Oswald’s killed living people before, probably looking like he does now.

“Despite Napier’s attempts at levity, he is dangerous. However, he is young, and unskilled, which means he’ll be susceptible to cheap tricks. Jonathan?”

He sighs and adjusts his glasses, wishes he’d at least thought to wear contacts. But in his defense, he hadn’t come outside expecting to be yanked into a hearse.

“Contrary to popular belief, bright light-like a flashlight, or a large fire-don’t hurt vampires. However, because that rumor has persisted, most recently-born ones will back off if you shine a light on it. Not for long, but if you end up cornered, go for the eyes, they’re a little sensitive. You can also repel it with garlic, but that won’t hurt it unless you can get it in its mouth. This one being young, he probably won’t get close enough to give you the opening.” He sighs, thinks longingly of the stack of essays on his desk, and runs a hand through his hair. “Do we know where the grave is?”

Edward hefts the shovel and jerks his head towards the weedier part of the cemetery.

“Over there.”

It’s an odd procession they make, a group of twenty-somethings with yard tools and sharp objects and a Super Soaker, trekking across hallowed ground to dig up a grave. Jonathan half-hopes somebody else has done it by now, but he doubts it. Most people would rather wait and take their chances at night than they would dig up a coffin. And to be fair, it’s a messy business.

Harley’s prancing along ahead of them, calling out, “Hurry up! We gotta stop ‘im before he can run amok-amok-amok!”

If one of them is going to be stricken dumb today, he knows who he hopes it is.

As it turns out, Napier isn’t buried. Well, not in the ground. No, he has a tomb. A tomb!

“Really?”

Harley shrugs.

“Puddin’ felt bad, havin’ to kill a fanboy.”

Great.

Kitty sighs and mutters, “If puddin’ gets bit, I will die happy.”

He doesn’t have it in him to feel bad for laughing.

“Still a better love story than _Twilight._ ”

What? It’s…endearing…when she puts her knuckles up to her lips to hide the giggling. And Harley’s not paying any attention, it’s fine.

The only one unfazed by this new development is Edward, who throws the shovel off to the side, narrowly missing Oswald’s face, and crouches down with a set of lockpicks. Oswald snarls.

“Really?”

“You were in the way.”

“I _loathe_ you.”

“Less flirting, more lock-picking.”

As it turns out, they do need the shovel. The lock is stubborn (possibly enchanted) and they end up smashing it after bending several picks. Considering it hasn’t been that long, it already smells like it’s been shut up for decades. If there was ever any doubt, it would be dispelled.

“Let’s all try not to get separated, shall we?” he says, checking the gun he keeps on him at all times. Six silver bullets. That should be plenty. “After you, Oswald.”

* * *

They get separated ten minutes in. He and Kitty end up in some little room that’s got skeletons in it and the other three…who knows.*

Idiots.

Well, he’s got his gun and she’s got a chainsaw and whatever else is in her backpack, so at least they’re not sitting ducks.

“You don’t think he’s got thralls, do you?”

He shakes his head, leans back to check that there’s nothing in that alcove.

“Too young. They don’t learn how to do that until they’ve got a few decades behind them.”

“Mm.”

A rat staggers out of a ribcage, squeaking lazily. It’s fat and there’s scabs on its tail. When it hits the flashlight’s beam, it makes an angry noise and tries to run.

It doesn’t get far-Kitty, as it turns out, has a thigh holster for wooden stakes, and she impales it before it gets out of the room.

“That was gross.”

“We should go.”

Aside from the rat, there’s no signs of life. No insects, no worms, no nothing. The movement of the rat implies that Napier doesn’t have full control of his powers yet, which is really the best thing about this.

Dealing with vampires in their own tombs is akin to chasing a serial killer into their own booby-trapped lair; incredibly stupid and dangerous. It’s too late now, he knows, but it’s tempting to leave the others to their fates. And he would consider it, but Edward has the car keys.

And at this point, making new friends is too much effort. He’s keeping these ones if it kills him.

_SKREE!_

Something shadowy sprints by, just out of the edge of the light, and he fires. There’s the soft _clink!_ of the bullet hitting the ground. Damn.

It’s probably because she’s small, but for a minute he doesn’t know where Kitty is. When he flings a hand out in her last known direction, he smacks her in the stomach by accident.

“Really?”

“You’re small!”

“I didn’t move!” Lies. She was closer last he checked-why is she grabbing his hand? What is she doing? (Her hand is _cold_.) “There. Now we won’t get separated.”

He can’t argue with that logic.

The stones are making far too much noise, he thinks. He hates vampire tombs. Tombs should be banned. Simple graves for everyone!

The darkness is all-encompassing, swallowing all but a tiny scrap of the flashlight. He remembers his first tomb, fingers clutching Granny’s skirts (she may have been an old hag, but she was one of the best, he knew she’d keep him safe from _that_ particular threat).

Kitty’s fingers are warming up. There’s callouses on her palm, from stakes and saws and guns, similar to the ones he’s got on his own hands. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know why she’s here.

“Why do you do it?”

She cracks her neck, the small _crick!_ echoing in the gloom.

“I dated one by accident,” she says. “An old one, you know, a charmer. And one day he attacked me, and I…we had leftover garlic linguine in the fridge, and I just…shoved it down his throat.” Really. “It was an awkward break-up.”

He shouldn’t laugh, but she’s just so matter-of-fact about it. She knocks her shoulder against his, but not hard. She’s probably not that mad-oh, hey. A door. A big, ominous, decorated-with-a-bat-skeleton door.

It’s locked, and since Edward has both the shovel and the ruined lockpicks, there’s only one way in. And that…is the chainsaw.

He takes the flashlight and the backpack and steps back with a weak, “You’re sure?”

“This is the second-best part.” **TPTPTPTPTPT-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!** “Who wants Thin Mints?”

He’d kill for Thin Mints. That’s not even hyperbole. He’s shoved an old man out of the way for the last box before.

The door doesn’t fall, obviously, but the resulting hole means he can reach through and unlock it.

The room is small. It’s not an ornate one, either, not like some inner sanctums he’s seen. No, this one has an old microphone, a handful of advertisements for its resident, and a rubber chicken.

Behold, the tacky vampire.

The coffin is a simple wooden one, half-falling off the slab it’s been placed on against the far wall. The lid is on tight and a closer look says the lining’s stapled on but good, protecting its occupant from the flashlight.

Well. That’s unfortunate.

The lid is also stuck, as they find out when he attempts to push it off. Kitty sets the chainsaw on the ground and comes over to help, and that’s when things go straight to Hell in a green and yellow basket.

The lid shoots off and they wind up on the ground. There’s a horrible screeching inside the coffin and a big, black shape rises up, up, up-oh, dear God, that’s a crop top.

He’s killing this thing if he has to go full vampire to do it. It is too tacky to live.

He fires at it just as it leaps up to the ceiling, claws scraping horribly against the stones, and scurries towards the door like a big, ugly lizard.

**BLAM!**

It shrieks and falls, landing awkwardly between them and the door. The chainsaw fires up and then Kitty’s moving, looking like a tiny, genderswapped Leatherface.

**SQUELCH!**

The head, mouth open in shock, rolls into the hall. The body hits the ground with a nasty **thud!**

“That was easy.” She rolls her shoulders and shakes her wrists out. It’s a common misbelief that vampires don’t bleed. They don’t…unless they’ve been feeding. And this one’s had food-there’s blood splashed across her face and shirt.

“Hold still.” Vampire blood, if ingested, has nasty side effects. “You’ve got…” He tilts her head back and rubs his sleeve across a glop by her mouth. She’s smiling at him when he drops his arm and maybe…he can always blame it on post-put-down nerves… “Kitty?”

“Yes?”

“I was…when we get out of here…would-I-I mean, if you want-”

“Ye-es?”

_Now or never…_

“There’s no pressure, but-what?”

“What?”

The body on the floor is moving, clawed hands stabbing down into the stones to heave itself up.

“I must not have hit the heart,” he mutters. “God dammit…this is why I prefer contacts…”

**BLAM!**

It goes back down, the hole in its back smoking. About time.

“You could come up to my place for drinks,” Kitty says, just this side of casual, and if it were possible for the sun to rise in a tomb, it would have.

“Yes! Yes. That’s, ah, what I…meant to…”

She leans up to kiss his cheek and breathes, “I absolutely did not mean drinks, just so’s you know.”

Then she’s picking up the chainsaw and pouring the gas out of it and onto the body. Right. He should…he’s got a lighter in his pocket, he’s sure-ah! Lighter.

It might be awful, but he always does have a nice time on outings like these. Eventually.

THE END

 

*If you think they didn’t get ditched on purpose, there’s no hope for you. Oswald has money riding on this, y’all.

 


	15. Black Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t look in a mirror at night, something might grab you and pull you in. Or possess you.

Aaron Cash has been saying for years that Arkham’s two-way mirrors are just asking for trouble. The inmates know they’re there, after all. Some of them, like Croc, can’t even be taken into those rooms because they just try to come through the glass. And Joker, well, he just laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Preens a bit, sometimes. Asked his last therapist if she’d be a dear and let him touch up his eyeshadow during their session.

The therapist quit that day.

The mirrors have been here for years, which means they’re dark and stained, the way glass always gets when it’s been around for too long. Adds to the hopeless ambiance of the place, really. That lingering idea that Arkham is something…more…than a building.

They’re not the greatest, either. If you know what to look for, you can see through them even with the lights on. Just shadows, but the sharp-eyed inmates like to look at the observers. They always know when Batman’s there, no matter how impossible that sounds, although lately, most of them have left off trying to provoke him.

Cash doesn’t want to know why.

He’s with the nighttime cleaning crew in the main interview room tonight. It’s messier than usual; God knows how, but Ivy got a plant. Just a little Christmas Cactus, but the results had been _ugly_. So here they are, mopping up the blood. They have to security on them. Power’s been dodgy all night, what with the storm, and the cleaning crew’re the preferred targets. Disguises, weapons, hostages…they’re everything these freaks could want, all rolled into a neat, mop-wielding package.

So far, everyone’s either contained or behaving. Joker, thankfully, doesn’t have a choice-the Bat brought him back with his leg pointing sideways. Gordon had murmured something about Robin and a tape and Cash had spared a minute to feel sorry for the kid. And then they’d moved on, guiltily glad that the clown won’t be stirring any shit today.

It’s pretty empty in here, too. Riddler got sprung on evidence Cash _knows_ Penguin dug up, that bottle-eyed bastard, and Harvey’s actually at a halfway house with his therapists.* Who knows how long that’ll last, but maybe this time…Cash hopes so. Ol’ Harv’s a good man, when he’s not riding the crazy train, and being in here with the real cuckoos never does him any favors.

Unfortunately, they’ve got their share of the big guns here tonight. Joker can still hurt anyone who gets too close, Ivy’s in her containment cell (who knows how long that’ll last in this weather) and Scarecrow’s here. He’s been well-behaved lately, but his doctor’s starting to get twitchy.

“Five more minutes, then we gotta move.”

That’s the drill. It has to be. That’s tonight’s schedule. Schedules change by the day, to try and lessen the chances of being attacked.

“Almost done.”

Good.

He leans out into the hall. No sign of anyone, not even another guard. That’s normal. The guard for this part of the floor should be by the bathroom right now.

Brr. Cash wouldn’t trade this job for anything, but damn, does he hate Arkham at night. It’s creepy. Too many goddamn gargoyles. (What kinda building, old or not, has that many gargoyles _inside_ , huh? Come on!) And this room? It always, _always_ feels like someone’s watching from the other side.

He flips off a gargoyle, hopes it’s not secretly Batman (he’s sorry if it is) and turns back around. Almost done, there’s just a spot on the mir…ror…WHAT THE HELL-

Scarecrow is on the other side of the glass-no. No, he’s leaning against the doorframe on THIS side of the glass crap crap crap-

“Mister Cash.” Cash moves between the cleaning crew and Scarecrow (Crane, isn’t it, right now anyway). Crane simply tilts his head just a little too far and rasps, “Might I trouble you for a cough drop? The chemicals are giving me the _devil_ of a sore throat.”

“How’d you get out of your cell.”

Crane smiles at him, pitying, and says, “Cough drop.”

A flash of lightning makes the man’s already-long shadow stretch even longer. So far, he looks like he means it about that cough drop.

But then again, he meant it about being in charge of Dr. Murphy’s sessions, too.

“Back to your cell, let’s go. You two lock the door behind me.”

Crane lets Cash cuff his hands and tug him down the hall, back towards the high security wing. Once they arrive (the door’s wide open, dear lord), he turns and says, “There’s an outage down this way. You could probably reset everything by now, though.”

“Hm.”

“Cough drop?”

He’s got a pack of Life Savers, and he hands them over and hopes to God that’s all the man wants. It must be, because he pops one in his mouth, smiles, and steps inside with nothing more than a, “Thank you, Mister Cash, and good night.”

Cash resets the security locks, wishes they’d get a bigger budget, and heads back. He hears the screaming two hallways over.

Investigation turns up a fear gas canister, placed just behind the door. The cleaning crew survives, but they’ve developed a bit of a phobia of mirrors.

Cash can’t blame them. And he’s careful, next time there’s a breakout, to avoid hunkering down in an interview room. Just in case.

THE END

 

*I believe in Harvey Dent.


	16. Paraskevidekatriaphobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday the 13th is an unlucky day. And, well, this being Gotham…there’s probably an asshole who will make it so. Arkhamverse exclusive. Title: 'fear of Friday the 13th'.

Antoine Drouot is not going to lie, he hates this kind of trip. Breaking into some sketchy compound that’s riddled with tripwires and landmines? Sure. Assassination mission? Okay. Going to visit Scarecrow? Fuck. That.

But here he is, because he can’t, in all good conscience, leave the boss alone with the guy. Somebody might die. He just really wishes they could’ve gone on Saturday. He’s not superstitious, s’just…why provoke the Pumpkin King on Friday the thirteenth, huh? Why ask for trouble?

This is bullshit, is what this is, and if he spots a rabbit’s foot at a Circle K or something, he’s grabbing it.

The Arkham Knight is sprawled in the passenger’s seat. Could be asleep. Could be brooding. Who knows. Antoine’s leaning towards brooding, if only because nobody could sleep through the three near-accidents they’ve had in the twenty minutes they’ve been in this car.

(Gotham drivers are **mean**.)

Chinatowns, Antoine thinks, are the same everywhere. They’re all run-down, sketchy places. It’s kinda nice, to see that level of uniformity. Gotham’s Chinatown, admittedly, adds an extra level of creepy (rats aren’t supposed to be that big, are they?), but at the end of the day, if you knocked him out and flew him to one, he’d have no idea what city he was in.

“Uh, boss? We’re here.”

The Knight makes a noise of acknowledgment.

“Good.”

Yeah. Fan-friggin’-tastic. His only hope is that Richardson’ll be busy somewhere else. Or Crane, but seeing as they’re here to **see** Crane…maybe he finally fell apart! They don’t really need him for this, right? Right?

Crane’s safehouse is still something out of a horror movie. The, uh, the Robin Clone is still here, huddled in the corner of his cell. He looks up when they come in, finds them uninteresting, and goes back to picking at his fingernails.

Antoine does not wanna know how they got him like that.

“Robin.” Damn. Wish not granted. “Leave it alone.” The kid leaves off, blood streaming from an index finger, and Richardson frowns. “Send someone down…you’re early.”

What? They could’ve sat in the car for another five minutes or something?

**May your suit malfunction and make you do the Robot, boss. The. ROBOT.**

There’s a **BOOM!** of thunder and the lights go out. Of course the lights go out. Why wouldn’t they?

Everyone’s quiet for a minute, save for the low whimpering from the Robin Clone’s cell. Richardson sighs, walks over, and smacks the glass before saying, “Stay here. Someone’ll be down to collect you.”

She leaves and Antoine shivers, mutters, “Goddamn Bride of Chucky.”

The Knight snorts.

“I don’t want to drive myself back. Sh.”

Easy for the guy with the glowing eyes to say.

“Sorry, boss.”

The Clone’s whimpering again and he glances towards the stairs. He doesn’t hear anything over there, or see anything (like it matters in this kinda darkness), and he figures it’s safe to go a little closer.

“S’okay, kid,” he says. Who knows if that’ll help, but… “Just a power outage, that’s all.”

Maybe some of that bad luck that’s floating around today will turn on one of Them, cause a fall down the stairs. Or even just a stubbed toe. He’ll take that.

The whimpering’s starting to slow and he goes a little closer, crouches down so they’re…maybe kind of…at eye-level.

“See? Nothing to be scared of.”

Silence. He’s just thinking that maybe that helped when the glass shudders and a wild shrieking comes from the other side of it.

Never mind.

He steps back, trying not to listen to the kid’s fists pounding on the glass, and rubs his arms. Well? Sometime today would be great.

“Robin! That’s **enough.** ” Yay… “Are you coming or not?”

She’s brought a flashlight. More of a penlight, really, it’s a step away from useless, but whatever.

They follow her up the stairs and into a room with candles. Come on, there’s aesthetic, and there’s Aesthetic, and then there’s Too Much. This is definitely in the latter category-that is a corpse, over there, in the corner.

Right, then. Um. Sorry, boss, you’re on your own, he’ll be in the car if you get out alive.

…yeah, yeah, he’s not leaving. But it’s **tempting**.

It’s not a corpse, as it turns out. It’s an unconscious woman, trussed up from neck to ankles and gagged. Crane’s seated across from her, needles glowing in the gloom (what is **in** that stuff, glow-in-the-dark nail polish?). He’s rocking the glowing eyes, too, which is not fair. Again, man, Too Much. It’s a thing.

“Well?” the Knight says shortly. “Let’s see.”

Antoine’s not sure how much control over his face Crane has anymore, but he thinks the burlap…smiles. The man’s amused, anyway; Antoine’s spent enough time around expressionless people ( **ahem** ) to pick up on that sorta thing.

What a skill.

“Patience.”

**“Crane-”**

“You. Will. **Wait** ,” Crane hisses suddenly, standing up much easier than he had last time. “Mister Mash!”

Antoine only panics a little bit when a guy the approximate width of a brick wall lumbers in, crouches down, and hauls the woman over his shoulder.

“Downstairs,” Richardson says, “back to her cell.”

The man doesn’t answer, just goes, footsteps heavy on creaking floorboards. The Knight growls.

“What the hell is going on.”

“You’re not the subject, don’t fret,” Crane says smoothly, a low chuckle in his voice. “Not today. Come along, gentlemen.”

They go down the hall. This is the kind of hall you see in horror movies. It’s long, dark, and the viewer is usually screaming at the dumbass protagonist not to go down it. Great. He’s the dumbass protagonist-no. No. This the boss’s fault, Antoine has been dragged along against his will.

…he’s gonna die, huh. Common Sense always dies. AND HE’S BLOND. SHIIIIIT.*

At the far end of the hall is a heavy wooden door that may as well have ‘Not scary at all! :)’ scrawled on it in blood. Two big, heavy chains are crisscrossed over it, held together with a pumpkin-shaped padlock (where?) bigger than his hand.

Turns out the chains and padlock are purely for the Aesthetic. Richardson shoves it aside to reveal a normal lock. He can’t even judge at this point, because the boss…yeah, it’s supposed to be Batman-but-scarier, but, er, he got a wrong-angle look and now he can’t unsee the cat resemblance. So. Sorry, sir.

The door opens, chains rattling, to reveal a glass chamber. Inside is a different woman. She looks healthier than the other one. Sounds it, too-the minute the door opens, she starts screaming at them.

“-ck fucks, when I get out of here-”

“But you won’t be getting out of there, Dr. Provence,” Crane says. “It’s an unfortunate fact of life, but you should have thought about the consequences when you attempted to sell my product without a license.”

They seem to find this funny. Dr. Provence only pounds on the glass. Downstairs, the Robin Clone starts screaming again.

“I thought we were past that.”

“The dark’s upset him.”

“Hm.” Crane makes his way to a table on the other side of the room. “We’ll have to do something about that…a little sensory therapy should do the trick…ah.” Weak light shines from the table and there’s the tapping of keys. “This is a concentrated dose,” he explains, “and this is what I want Mister Stagg to be able to replicate on a large scale. He is, I understand, moving along quite nicely.”

The Knight shifts and there’s an unpleasant popping noise.

“You’re sure.”

“Positive. He knows better than to disappoint me. Never fear, everything on my end is going according to plan.” Famous last words… “As for your end…”

“Everything is fine,” the boss snaps. “Now let’s get this over with.”

Crane laughs again, a nasty sound, and murmurs, “Now, now, child, this sort of thing can’t be rushed. You of all people know the results of **time spent.** ”

“Fuck you-”

There’s a _HISSSSS!_ and the laptop’s sick gleam illuminates a yellowish gas floating in the glass cell. The woman redoubles her efforts, banging on the glass hard enough that Antoine is legitimately concerned she’ll break her hand. Not that it matters, but…

“LET ME OUT OF HERE! GOD, PLEASE!”

This is the part of the job he doesn’t like, when dying people (he hopes she’s gonna die, he’s seen footage) come face-to-face with the end, and that base desire to **live** eclipses everything else.

But he is a professional, and he doesn’t flinch when the screaming tapers off, turning to little asthmatic gasps. Maybe…maybe it’s a dud batch. Yes. Yes, please be a dud. He doesn’t want to…a little industrial theft doesn’t deserve this, nothing really deserves this…

Her luck’s not that good, or maybe it’s just bad today. Crane closes the laptop, though, plunging them back into darkness. There’s little movements-the woman, he thinks. Richardson crossing the room. The boss shifting his weight with another painful-sounding **pop!**

Then there’s a horrific screaming from the cell, and squelching. The laptop’s suddenly reopened-Richardson has it now, she’s carried it closer to the cell for maximum illumination.

The Knight’s reaction is hidden behind his helmet. Antoine’s not so lucky, and he knows they know he’s turned green. But how can he not? She’s. Her face. She’s still trying to claw it off, flesh hanging in ragged strips from her jawbone and her fingernails. Blood’s streaming onto her shirt and dripping onto the floor and in some spots, she’s clawed down to the bone.

**Oh my God, what are we doing with this madman?**

Crane gestures to the dark hallway, yellow glow sloshing a little in the syringes.

“I’m sure this is a satisfactory test,” he says. “Shall we go somewhere a little quieter to discuss the next step?”

THE END

 

*It’s okay, buddy. Blondies get taken out in the shower, you’re good.


	17. Silver Gaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coins-on-corpse-eyes is a varying, but widespread, thing. Some say it’s to pay the ferryman (so can you bring another coin to tip him? Can you hook your MP3 up to the aux. cord on the way? Can he kick you out of the boat you for talking?). Others say it’s to hold the eyes shut, because if the dead see you, they’ll come back, or try to get you to follow, or some other Bad Thing.
> 
> Gaslights ‘verse.

Somehow, the fact that Scarecrow is causing mayhem in broad daylight only makes him that much scarier. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have his giant, glowing horse, or that Gotham’s crappy excuse for sunlight makes it impossible for him to jump out of a dark alley. Between the mask, the scythe, and his reputation, he’s good.

Jason is honestly more resentful than anything about the ungodly hour. He hasn’t had to be awake in the daytime-well, he hasn’t had to be awake and functioning in the daytime-for years. Being legally dead tends to do that.

(Everyone he knows has banned vampire jokes, unfortunately. And to be fair, he was technically staked the first time and that didn’t take, so…)

Oh, well. Today is Wednesday, which means that Olga’s probably making zapekanka, and if they drop by after and look pathetic enough, she might give them some. So really, Scarecrow’s doing them a favor.

He and Tim have been separated in the confusion. Dick got stuck with Evacuation Duty, because Flippy McHittystick got tackled off a building by the actual bat monster in town a few nights ago and isn’t up to anything strenuous.

Although, Scarecrow’s caused a lot more mayhem in fifteen minutes than Jason thinks is reasonable. There’s a lot of panicky people. Nobody’s showing signs of having been poisoned, but that hasn’t stopped them from running and screaming.

Given the sheer size of the crowd (ah, Cauldron Lane…they’d picked their share of pockets down here), he’s not surprised that he doesn’t see Tim. And, really, he thinks he gets a free pass for not recognizing Mrs. Crane until she hits him in the face with a pipe.

* * *

Jason wakes up in a small room. Basement, judging from the dampness in the walls and that unmistakable feeling of earth overhead. It’s well-lit, candles and jack-o-lanterns everywhere, and he clings to those. Underground is not a grave. It’s just a basement. He can do basements, even murderer’s basements.

At least, that’s his initial thought. Then he tries to move his hands, expecting them to be tied or something, and finds that they’re cuffed. And. And that they’re folded across his chest and that there’s wood around him and God no he’s wrong he’s gotta be-

**Look.**

He swallows and turns his head. Coffins have a. A unique shape (don’t want the body rolling around in the box, do we?), a-and he knows what it feels like to be in one and no-no-NO-

“Yes,” a voice says from somewhere behind his head, and he realizes he’s been chanting those Nos. He snaps his mouth shut. The lid’s not on, it’s fine. He’s going to be fine, the others will notice he’s missing, they might have already, they’ll come. They did before.

**A little late, but…**

This isn’t that, this isn’t Then, he’ll be fine.

Scarecrow-Crane, he guesses, without his mask-leans over him, fingers curling around the wooden slats.

“Our last discussion was interrupted,” he hisses, and Jason’s stomach drops. He’d been injected with what Tim told him later was a double dosage, maybe two months ago, and judging by his surroundings, he’d been…informative. “Shall we continue?”

He tries to sit up and headbutt him, but the manacles have been nailed to the cof-to the wood under him, and he gets jerked back down, smacking the back of his head on the planks.

“Go to Hell.”

He pays for that one when Mrs. Crane proceeds to drop a handful of dirt onto his face. He can’t help it; he flinches, chains rattling, and Crane smiles.

“Manners,” he says, reaches down to brush some of the dirt off Jason’s forehead. “Now…where did we leave off, hmm?”

“Probably.” He swallows. Everything’s going to be fine. “Probably you getting kicked in the face.”

The smile doesn’t waver. Mrs. Crane steps away, though, and the light starts to dim.

**Breathe. Breathe. They’ll be here, you’re gonna be fine, they’re coming right now.**

Soon, there’s only two candles lit, the flickering light making it look like things are crawling across the ceiling. There aren’t. He’s fine. He’s fine

**Somebody please get me outta here please please please Dickie where are you you promised SOMEBODY PLEASE-**

Crane fixes his hair

**One last touch-up like it matters no one’s ever gonna see you again**

and frowns down at him. A spider skitters across the ceiling.

“Something’s missing…”

He wants to scream, to tell him to go die in a fire, to **say something** , but his throat is swollen or his lips are stitched shut, he can’t tell.

“Mm-”

“Kitty? I’m forgetting something. I **know** I’m forgetting something.”

“Coins,” she says, followed by the familiar **flik!** of a silver dollar being flipped. He struggles against the chains again and earns an irritated flick to the forehead.

“Stop that.”

Cold silver eases his eyelids down. They’re red from the light and he clings to that. He’s fine. They’re just trying to scare him, somebody’s going to come, he just has to wait it out. They’ll come, and they’ll go home. Or maybe they’ll go see Olga, she’ll definitely give him something now. Probably scold him for being reckless, but that’s fine.

There’s a horrific scraping, something being moved across the floor. Then there’s the sound of wood scuffing against wood, and the red behind his eyelids…disappears.

“No, no, no…”

He jerks his head, trying to at least dislodge the coins, but they’re stuck tight to his face and no amount of thrashing will get them off. Where are they, they should have been here by now-!

**Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!**

At first, he doesn’t understand. But then bits of dirt slip through the slats, striking his face and dashing off the damned coins.

His breath is ragged, bouncing off the wood, and he’s trying to be calm, honest he is, when something with too many legs scurries across his throat.

“PLEASE!” He thrashes again, praying for the coins to fall, and whatever’s in here with him scuttles up the wooden walls. “Please…God…”

If he could just get them **off** , that would be enough, he’s sure of it. So he tries to stretch his hands up and bend his head downwards to claw them off, but he can’t reach-his nails keep scraping at his cheeks instead.

 ** _“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust!”_** Scarecrow screams from somewhere above him, and the lid bows under the weight of the earth, creaking but still **holding.** Jason redoubles his efforts to reach the damn coins. His cheeks are wet and he just-just another inch or two, that’s all-

**I’m not dead I don’t wanna be dead don’t let me be please someone get me outta here-**

It’s raining. He can hear the water pounding against the soil above him, turning it to churning mud, and things start coming in, desperate to escape the deluge. Something hairy crawls into his hair and he yelps. When he jerks his head to try and get it off, he smacks it into the wood, causing more dirt and bugs to spill in.

The lid finally gives way with a sickening **crack!** and the last thing Jason knows is a downpour of suffocating mud and Scarecrow cackling, **_“May he rest forever in peace!”_**

THE END


	18. Hello Yes No Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, the Ouija board. Bit of a Thing for people. Personally, I say it’s a game. I’ve done it. Nothing happened. Granted, we all shrieked and giggled at it, but have YOU ever seen a group of thirteen-year-old girls hopped up on sugar, caffeine, and scary movies? Come on.
> 
> Anyways, these have their own set of rules/superstitions, so.

It’s been two weeks since Granny’s…untimely passing…and the leaves are starting to change. Jonathan’s not going to lie, he’s not exactly looking forward to longer nights. It’s…it’s not an easy thing, to sleep in this big, old house by himself. He knows it’s impossible, but he’s been waking up at two in the morning, drenched in sweat and _knowing_ that Granny’s hauled herself out of the chapel and up the stairs and is at this moment clawing at his door.

Kitty’s parents are out of town this evening, which means she’s coming over for a little while to help him search for the deed. At least, that’s what she said. When he opens the door to let her in, she’s got a bag of candles and a plank sticking out of the top.

“What is that.”

“It’s a Ouija board!” she says. “A real one, though, from…I don’t know, s’my da’s side of the family. Eighteen-something. He says it’s made out of a coffin.”

He pulls it free. It is, indeed, old and wooden. It’s a dark wood, with questionable stains on the back, and the varnish is either too much or not quite enough. There’s some weight to it, though. It feels like it could at the very least leave a goose egg on somebody’s head.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’ve never done it, have you.”

“Kitty. Name a direction you can turn without seeing a church.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Mm-hm.” He flips the board. It’s hand-painted, with the alphabet and numbers taking up most of the room. “We had an exorcism five years ago. So, no, I have never so much as touched a Ouija board. Granny would have killed me.”

“Good thing you killed her first, then,” she says breezily, sweeping past him and towards the dining room. “Come on, let’s see what happens.”

“Why?”

“Because your house has better ambiance than mine, and it’s older.”

That, at least, is true. Keeny Manor dates back to shortly after the Revolution, and it has a nasty history. Granny was fond of telling him all about the tragic accidents, betrayals, and lynchings that have happened on the property through the centuries.

…it’s no wonder he had night terrors as a boy.

“Kitty, nothing is going to happen.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there’s no such things as ghosts.”

“Yeah, but it’ll still be fun.”

…maybe. They may as well. If nothing else, Granny would hate to see the thing used in her Good Christian Dining Room™, which means he has to do it out of spite.

“Let me get a sheet.”

“For what?”

“Stay there, you’ll get lost!”

“Why do we need a sheet?”

He pulls one out of the closet and comes back, throws it over the big old mirror hanging on the far wall. It makes it look more than a little unsettling, but that’s not the point.

“Now you can’t yell at me for using that to scare you,” he says. She scoffs.

“Like you won’t try to scare me, anyway.”

Likely, but now he’ll have to be subtle. It’ll be a _challenge_.

The dining room hasn’t seen much use since Granny’s departure. They clear off one end of the long table and Kitty lays out the board, surrounds it with candles, and fishes around until she comes up with the planchette and a lighter. The planchette goes on the board. The lighter starts moving around the candles. Once they’re lit (they’re brighter than he’d thought they’d be), he shuts off the lights and sits down across from her.

“If we get sucked in, it’s your fault,” he says.*

“Thought you didn’t believe?”

No, but he wants to absolve himself of responsibility anyway. Just in case.

They sit and rest their fingers on the planchette. It’s much better varnished than the board-even and slick, and the glass in the middle is very thick.

Nothing happens. No spooky gust of air, no whispers, no nothing.

“What now.”

Kitty ignores him in favor of asking, “Is anyone here?”

He knows how these work. Minute tremblings of the fingers and psychological predisposition makes the thing move. But he’ll admit, it’s a little unsettling (because it’s dark and because this house is the sort scary stories are written about) when the planchette sliiiiides across the wood and stops on the _yes._

“That was fast,” Kitty whispers.

“It’s an old house,” he whispers back. “Remind me to tell you about the madwoman in the attic.”

She taps her foot against his shin and raises her voice to the board.

“Hello.”

Must be protocol. Manners are important and all that.

“Hello.”

The planchette doesn’t move. Okay. Kitty shrugs and says, “What is your name?”

It moves this time, to the _M_. But it doesn’t go any further. It’s probably tiring, moving this big, heavy thing.

“How did you-okay. Okay, never mind.”

The planchette first moves to the _hello_. Then, after a second (catching its breath?), it goes down, towards the _J. O. N. A._

“Very funny, Kitty.”

She’s not laughing.

“That’s not me,” she says. “Look.”

She pulls her fingers back. The planchette continues to move. _T. H._ “That’s you.”

It’s Scarecrow, is who it is. He withdraws his hands-

-and it keeps going. _A. N._

“That’s never happened before.”

The planchette doesn’t move again. Maybe it got pushed when they took their hands off. Yes, yes, that’s what happened. When it doesn’t do anything outlandish, like fly up and take out an eye, he figures he’s correct.

“Well?”

Kitty looks a little less enthused than she did earlier, but she puts her fingers back. The planchette quivers a little. One-or both, more likely, it’s cold in here-of them is shaking.

“How did you die?”

“That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to ask.”

“Can’t you ask if we passed English-”

“Oh, please, like anybody could fail that if they tried-”

  1. _I. R. D. S._



“You’re not funny,” he says faintly, folding his hands in his lap. “Come on, Kitty-”

“I’m telling you, I’m not doing it! Look!”

She puts her hands in the air. The planchette keeps going.

  1. _U. R. D. E. R._



“Jonathan-”

“Don’t look at me-”

There’s a loud thumping noise upstairs and they both jump. The planchette doesn’t move, but Jonathan will swear, if only for a second, that gnarled fingers brush his cheek before _something_ blows out the candles.

**Caw!**

WHAT-wait. Wait, wait, where’d she put that lighter…she’s got it, never mind.

A candle relights. A crow is just visible on the china cabinet, looking ruffled and irritated that there’s people in here.

**Caw!**

“We should go.”

“Uh-huh”

**Caw!**

They start inching towards the door, abandoning the damn board on the table. The crow flaps angrily and Jonathan reaches over to pinch the candle wick. There’s more angry cawing, but at least it can’t see them.

Like it’s ever mattered before, but…

They’re barely out of the room when there’s the unmistakable sound of it kicking off the wood and flapping around for a second before-

-oh. Oh boy, time to go, time to go, time to _duck!_

He drops, yanking her down after him, and it soars over them and off to somewhere else in the house. Upstairs, sounds like. Great.

When it doesn’t come back, they make a break for the front door and burst onto the porch, panting. The moon’s rising, illuminating what’s left of the scarecrow. He’s never been so glad to see the useless thing in his life.

“Let’s not do that again,” Kitty says, a little breathless, and he nods.

“I’ll walk you home.”

“You’ll come in, I’m not staying by myself.”

“Scared?”

“Yes,” she says, and she sounds so offended that he’d even ask that he has to laugh. “Stop laughing, you were scared, too!”

“I was not.”

“Lies!” Yes. Yes, lies. But he’s not about to admit it. “Besides, you said something a madwoman in the attic. You can’t just leave it at that.”

Fine. But he’ll be telling that story with the lights on tonight. Just in case.

THE END

* *insert Jumanji drums here*


	19. Vigil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a few reasons to sit with a corpse the first night it’s…well, a corpse. So it doesn’t get lonely, so it’s not insulted (and therefore inspired to haunt your ass), in case it wakes up (a legit concern in Ye Olde Days)…

The screaming stops after about ten minutes. The flapping and cawing does not.

Jonathan sinks to the dirt outside the chapel and leans against the wall, breathing deeply. He wants to go back to the house, to wash his hands-no, a full shower, that’s what he wants-but he needs to be sure that she won’t follow. She _can’t_ follow. If she gets out of there…

No. No, he’ll wait. All night, if need be, to be sure.

**_Party time?_ **

_Waiting time._

Scarecrow huffs. Jonathan takes his glasses off and pulls his knees up to his chest, drops his head down on them. The cawing is beginning to die down, but there’s still…fluttering.

He had to do this. This wasn’t for money, o-or even for petty grievances. She’d have killed _him_ before letting him leave. That’s why he doesn’t feel sick, right? Because it had to be done. It…it was self-defense, not really _murder_. He’d feel worse if he’d killed her for no reason, surely.

The crickets are noisy tonight, and there’s no pauses between the choruses. Five crickets stop, but ten more pick up where they left off, and between them and the occasional squabbling from the crows inside…he’ll never understand books saying, ‘it was a quiet southern night’. They don’t have quiet nights. The quietest night he’s ever had was still ruined by a dog howling at random intervals.

The squabbling eventually dies (fades, he meant fades) off, and he wonders if maybe he can go inside now.

He gets his legs under him, puts his glasses on, and unbolts the door. There’s the sound of the birds fluttering up to the rafters.

The door feels like it got heavier than it was earlier, but then again, his arms are shaking, and shaking badly. So maybe it’s just him.

**CRE-AK!**

She’s not far from the door, actually. Only a few feet. What little he can see of her is…tattered, hair and scalp torn clean off the bone, hands and fingers pecked half to shreds. She’s not moving.

“G-” His voice catches, throat tightening, and he coughs and tries again. “Granny?”

He’s not expecting an answer. She has to be dead, looking like that. Or at least stricken mute. But. But her _head_ , it _moves._ It moves and those tattered fingers flex against the dirt and she’s _looking at him_. One eye’s partially gone, white strings still clinging to the socket, but the other isn’t.

_“Jonaathaaan-”_

The fingers flex again, like she’s going to crawl towards him, and he yanks at the door. It shrieks on its hinges but comes, slamming shut before she can get to him. He bolts it and puddles back to the ground, gasping and cold through. Too close. Too close.

It’s twenty minutes later when there’s a soft scraping at the wood and he jumps back. When she (of course she doesn’t, she can’t, he’s tried) doesn’t claw through the wall, he sits back down and hugs his knees.

He stays there until dawn. And if he’d rather get a heavy chain out of the basement than he would open the door again, well…no one’s around to judge him for that.

THE END


	20. Did Not Think This Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diamonds=good luck/insanity prevention.
> 
> SPOILERS FOR WHITE KNIGHT. Which was fabulous. Partly I’m a slut for Sean Murphy’s artwork, partly for ‘I bet when [Baby Doll and Killer Croc] cuddle, Croc’s the little spoon’. Headcanon ACCEPTED. Also, that Poison Ivy design? That needs to be forever.

Marian Drews opens her eyes to a bright, white room. There are no windows, or mirrors, and the door is heavy. Looks industrial, like a prison’s. She’s tied to a chair, her only view the singular lightbulb dangling from the ceiling and a long, metal table a few feet away from her. The room smells like bleach.

“Well, well, Miss Drews.” Oh, no. “It’s good to have a name at last, isn’t it?”

“It really is.”

She knows those voices. And she’d hoped, more than a little, to be safe and sound in Arkham or even better, out of the state, by the time everyone puzzled out what had happened. But that bitch Quinzel had stabbed her through the shoulder, and there had been complications, and…yeah.

Jonathan Crane steps around her and moves to lean against the table, ankles crossed, palms flat on the metal surface, and head bowed just enough for the light to turn his glasses into mirrors. He looks well, she notes with no small dismay. Not so much as a scratch on those cheekbones, hair perfectly teased to flop almost endearingly across his forehead.

Kitty Richardson looks equally healthy. And taller, but that’s thanks to the chunky boots that come almost up to her knee. A hint of purple leggings peeps out before being swallowed by what looks like a man’s (Crane’s, probably) dress shirt, belted at the waist and rolled at the sleeves. She’s got Starbucks-Peppermint Latte, judging by the smell. No goggles today. Marian forgets she has brown eyes. Not that it matters.

Richardson hops up onto the table and leans her head against Crane’s shoulder, and just for a second, Marian _aches_ for Joker, and the way he used to call out, “Bring me my nail polish, wouldya, Harley?”

Never mind that it was the wrong name.

“Marian Drews,” Crane says again, and Marian frantically runs through what she knows about him. Ex-Arkham doctor, their youngest director, has, in the ‘how to interview’ section of his files, ‘TELL HIM NOTHING ABOUT YOURSELF’ in big, red letters. “Former bank teller, suicidal, a classic-albeit fascinating-case of Stockholm Syndrome. Made the _very_ grave mistake of attempting to rise up from your status of minion.”

“Joker did that to you, not me,” she blurts, because she loves him, but he can handle himself against the Scarecrow. Crane laughs, then, steals Richardson’s Starbucks and takes a sip.

“And that’s why you don’t date the hired help,” he says breezily. She laughs, butts her head against his shoulder.

“To be fair, Harley was good for him.”

“But not this one.”

“Mm.”

He leans forward, long arm extending and slender fingers sliding under her chin.

“That he did,” he says. “Unfortunately, Dr. Isley made it very clear that she wanted to be the first to…teach him the error of his ways.”

“And Ozzie’s talking to Harley,” Richardson says. Shame. He’ll go easy on her, Marian knows, especially given the…the circumstances. They knew, even if Joker didn’t, that Marian Drews and Harleen Quinzel were two different women, and most of them had a marked preference for her predecessor.

“But you…” Crane’s fingers tense, easing her head to the side. “You and Jervis made some mistakes, my dear.”

“It was his idea.” She’ll happily throw that creep under the bus. “I mean-I wanted Joker back, but he said to-”

Crane drops his arm and steps back, and then Richardson’s _moving_ , hand taut and painful when she slaps her across the face, nails digging in and leaving scratches on her cheek.

“That’s enough,” she says. “You don’t know how that works, do you? It’s like an out-of-body experience, sweetie, you know what’s happening, you just can’t stop it.”

Oh, no.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just…I was desperate, you of all people understand that, don’t you?”

For one brief, shining moment, she thinks they do. Crane sighs and reaches over to tug a strand of Richardson’s hair free from its messy bun and wind it around his fingers.

“We do,” he says at last. Richardson smiles, takes a sip of her drink.

“We just don’t care.”

Well, shit.

“I could-”

“There is nothing you could offer that would be of interest.” Crane walks back towards the door and picks up a bag. It’s a heavy leather one, an old-timey doctor’s bag, and she doesn’t want to know what’s inside. “Short of your screams of terror, of course, but we’re not _there_ yet.”

He takes the cup again and Richardson huffs.

“‘I don’t want one’,” she mocks. “‘I don’t like them. Too sweet.’ Lies!”

“Who got you a steep discount* on it.”

“You did.”

“That’s right.”

“Still.”

He takes another sip before handing it back and setting the bag on the table. His mask is the first thing to come out of it, followed by a hard case that looks like it could hold glasses or something, and then a velvet pouch. The last thing to be withdrawn is her choker, diamonds sparkling in the harsh light.

“It’s a funny thing, my dear. Diamonds, historically, were meant to be lucky. Some people swore they warded off insanity…that may be why Gotham’s diamond market is booming.” He looks critically at her and she knows it’s dumb, but she feels…naked, somehow, despite the orange hospital scrubs. “I always wondered if they attracted it. But then again, I’ve seen the inside of a jewelry store. Makes Arkham look tame.”

Richardson snorts and playfully swats at his arm.

“Oh, please, it’s not that bad.”

“I went in that one on Malview and nearly didn’t come out alive.”

“Did you flood the place with fear toxin?”

“No! We were working at Arkham at the time.” He straightens his sweater and picks up the choker, holds it between two fingers like a dead thing. “Interesting taste. Did you pick this, or the clown?”

“He did.” She licks her lips. “Give it back.”

“Thing that gaudy? I’m surprised you asked, love.” Richardson makes grabby hands and Crane drops the choker into her palm. “No woman alive picks something like this for herself.”

“They don’t, don’t they?”

“No. You keep that in mind if I ever die and you try to date.”

Crane grimaces. Marian inwardly agrees; minus the murder and permanent insanity, Crane…Crane is a pretty-eyed awkward turtle. He would not do well on OKCupid.

**“Give it back.”**

“Why don’t we test that little superstition, hmm?” Crane leans back, pops his spine. “Maybe there’s something to it after all.”

Richardson slips behind her and necklace presses against her throat. For a second, Marian thinks the other woman will strangle her with it, but then it goes a teeny bit slack and she steps away to hoist herself back onto the table, one leg hanging down towards the floor. Crane opens the hard case and withdraws a small vial, no bigger than a pinky finger, filled with pale blue liquid.

“Do you know what this is, Miss Drews?” he asks, giving a little shake and holding it up to the light. “Not rhetorical.”

“Fear toxin.”

“That’s right. In this vial is enough of my toxin to drive ten men irreversibly insane.” He gives it to Richardson and opens the pouch. There’s syringes in there, big, old-fashioned ones. “Batman is the only individual who has been able to overcome it, and in hindsight, I imagine he’s built a bit of resistance over the years.”

She gulps, eyes locked on the vial. She could be brave, once, with Mistah J by her side and makeup on her face. But she’s not Harley, she never was, and she’s _alone_ in this horrid little room with these monsters.

It’s that day in the bank all over again. She’s staring death in the face and she’s not ready. She’s not ready.

“But you…oh, my dear child, I don’t believe you’ve ever had this sort of experience in your life.” He takes the vial back, fills the syringe. “Let’s fix that.”

“Please-”

“Shh.” Richardson’s suddenly behind her again, hands gripping her head and forcing it up and to the side. “Maybe that necklace will save you after all…but I doubt it.”

The tip of the needle punctures her skin and she can’t help it, she shrieks, voice bouncing off the white walls and hitting her in the face.

She closes her eyes as the stuff sinks into her veins, tries to keep her breathing steady even as they retreat to the table again. Nothing’s happening. Nothing’s happening. Maybe…maybe it was a placebo, or she’s freakishly immune, or-

 ** _“Look at me.”_** She swallows and cracks her eyes open, just a teeny tiny bit. The room’s blurry. **_“Look at me!”_**

Marian Drews opens her eyes to a dark red room. There are no windows, or mirrors, and the door is heavy. And she is not alone.

 ** _“There you are!”_** The Scarecrow, crickets and spiders scurrying from his eyes down into his mouth, looms over her. **_“Are you ready to scream?”_**

THE END

 

*The FEAR TOXIN discount.


	21. Lucky Penny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carry a coin (preferably an old coin) for luck and prosperity. Harvey’s clearly got this down…if you count ‘bank robbery’ as ‘prosperity’.

Really, being locked up in Arkham isn’t that bad. Well, now it isn’t. Not now that it has a shiny new director that believes in ‘art therapy’ and ‘self-expression’ (within reason, murder and self-harm are strictly forbidden) and ‘the power of fresh air’.

Jonathan is bored, but not miserable, when Batman drops him back in there. At least, not at first. But then. _Then_ it becomes _very_ apparent that the current director is an unqualified, untrained _sucker_. How he got the job is a mystery. How he keeps the job is another. How he continues to breathe…that’s a riddle for the ages. The orderlies are likely to join the inmates for an hour or two of _Looney Tunes_ , for Heaven’s sake! What sort of business are they running?

The first time they…check out early…he’s willing to acknowledge that all right, they know all the little ways in and out of the place. The second time, he starts judging. The fourth time, when they come back and find _several garden-variety murderers_ out?

Something has to be done.

He lets himself into his old office (this imbecile _painted the walls_ -that’s it. That is it. This cannot go on.), settles himself into the now-uncomfortable desk chair, and waits. Soon enough, Director Skinner comes in, goes white, and visibly swallows down the urge to run.

“Director.” He folds his hands on the desk and nods at the couch. “Sit. We have things to discuss.”

“Jonathan-”

“Doctor. Crane.” He is not going to kill him. Not yet. “We’ve discussed that.” What is that, is that Picasso? He detests Picasso…looks like a four-year-old got into a pack of crayons… “We really need to do something about your escape record.”

“You’re not in charge here, now, Jonathan,” Skinner tries. Really. He’d had no idea. Truly, this is a terrible shock.

“I do not suffer from delusions, Director Skinner,” he says quietly. “Nor am I a child. The fact remains that I had, in my years here, exactly four escapes. You have had, in a single year-twelve months, if that’s easier to fathom-eleven. Fourteen, if you count my…multiple exits. And every time one of us gets out, people suffer, as does your reputation-what is that.”

There’s something shiny in Skinner’s hand. He stands up and plucks it away.

It turns out to be an old wheat penny, scrubbed shiny from being fiddled with. Jonathan resists the urge to either facepalm or face-slap Skinner.

“Lucky penny?” he asks, carrying it back to the desk. “It must work…you’re still alive.” Skinner has nothing to say to that. Jonathan hopes it stays that way. He can’t take much more stupidity. “Then again-”

“You broke into my office because you have concerns about my management skills?”

He. Is. Calm. So calm. He is as a pond on a still day.

He is probably going to end up in solitary when this is all over, and he doesn’t care anymore.

“Did no one ever teach you that interrupting people is rude?” He palms the coin and fixes Skinner with the flattest stare he can manage. No blinking. It unsettles people, the lack of blinking. Makes them less prone to talking out of turn. “Now. We need to discuss why your methods-whatever they might be-aren’t working-”

The door flies open. Jonathan sighs and plunks his head down on the desk. He’ll never try to help someone ever again. People are too obtuse to be helped.

Interestingly enough, they don’t find the penny, and Skinner appears to have forgotten about it in the excitement. He keeps it, intending to, perhaps, stuff it down the man’s throat at a later date.

He doesn’t get the chance. Not two days after their interrupted chat, Skinner runs afoul of Victor Zsasz. Very messy. Causes an awful lot of confusion.

He wonders, as they’re driving away in somebody’s 2004 Camry, what the new director will be like. Hopefully better than the last. If he likes them, maybe he’ll give them the penny. There may be something to it, after all.

THE END


	22. Skip to My Lou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t whistle at night: it draws demons/evil spirits. Which. Well.
> 
> Gaslights ‘verse, because Tim hasn’t gotten any one-on-one time with the Cranes yet. Sorry, Timmy, but that’s an easily correctable oversight. Play nicely. :)
> 
> Timeline-wise, this is before ‘Shatter Like Glass’-Dick and Kitty are occupied across town, actually.

Tim’s not sure what idiot thought ‘extinguishing all but the most vital lamps in Gotham’ was a smart plan. Whichever one it was, he hopes they suffer a crippling sinus infection. _On Christmas._

The idea behind the darkness is, ‘if these freaks can’t see anybody, they won’t murder them!’ Clearly, this is the work of one of the many bureaucrats who visit Gotham twice a year. The darkness makes them worse, you fools! It draws them out, like human boogeymen!

No one’s around to judge him. He can shake his fists at the sky in peace before hunkering down on a rooftop to sulk. And unlike Bruce, he’ll whole-heartedly admit that yes, he’s sulking. This is ridiculous. These people are clearly unqualified to run a city.

Seeing as no one (Jason…) is around to judge him, Tim can also admit that he doesn’t like the dark. He’s never liked it. His nanny, when he had a nanny, tried to cure him of that by locking him in a closet on the third floor. Ironically, that’s what saved him from the fatal burglary. But he went from that to living on Gotham’s streets, and even then…nightfall had brought some unpleasant things out of hiding. White slavers, cannibals, serial killers…

Even the nice part of Gotham is ugly. And they spent more nights than not on the seedy side.

So no, Tim doesn’t much care for the dark. He especially doesn’t like it now, with these new things lurking in it. Some of them are fairly harmless: the Riddler, for instance, is more bored than anything. Tim feels for him, a little. There’s a lot of unintelligent people in Gotham.

But others, like Scarecrow and the Grey Lady and that new one, the one with the clown makeup, they’re something else.

_Plik._

What? No!

…it’s true. His life is a cosmic joke. It’s dark, the streets are crawling with homicidal maniacs, and it’s _raining._ This isn’t fair. There’s lots of other people that deserve this. Dick, for kicking in his door and decreeing it ‘Hug Time’. Jason, for…

There’s a list for Jason.

But Tim! Tim doesn’t deserve this. And yet, he would not be shocked to discover that the rain is just…here. Maybe in, like, a five-foot radius.

Why, Gotham.

He scowls, huddles under a ledge, and rubs his arms. This is awful. You know, this might be punishment for threatening people with a boat-pusher. Maybe he does deserve this after all.

A flash of lightning transforms the street into a chiaroscuro painting-black skies, white buildings, shadowed streets. Gotham at night is a different beast, one with teeth, and as much as Tim likes being out…tonight, something feels wrong.

Probably the weather, he reasons. The weight of the storm is making his wrist, the one he broke when he was five, throb. He can feel it in his jaw. This is going to be a nasty one.

_Doo-do-do-do, do-do-do-doo…_

Huh?

His first thought is that one of his brothers is around here somewhere. Bruce doesn’t whistle, like, _ever_ , and Selina’s whistling is…more musical than that. Somehow. He can’t really explain it better than that. But it’s coming from the street below, and Dick and Jason are more likely to share his perch, or at least sit on the ledge above him.

_Doo-do-do-do, do-do-do-doo…_

What is that song, anyway? It’s on the tip of his tongue-oh! Oh! _Skip to My Lou._ Okay. Good, that was going to annoy him until he remembered-

Another flash of lightning illuminates the street. There’s no sign of anyone, and _now_ Tim’s getting a little suspicious. He grapples up a level, taking a raindrop to the eye on the way, and finds no one.

Really. What in the world…

He swings to the ground, sticking under porches to keep a wall at his back. It’s silent down here, now, and he thinks maybe someone’s trying to spook him. All right. Two can play at this game.

He purses his lips, tries a few times, and finally manages to get out an answering(?) _doo-do-do-doo, do-doo-doo._

This is a mistake. It’s maybe five seconds before there’s a laugh and an all-too familiar rasp of, **_“There you are.”_**

He whirls, staff in his hands before he can blink, and sees the shadow a few feet away. The Scarecrow is unmistakable, even without his horse, and up close, Tim can see that he’s done something to his mask to make the eyes glow.

“Don’t move,” he warns, wishing he’d stayed on his ledge. He remembers how unpleasant that gas was, thank you very much. “Put your hands above your head.”

The eyes come a little closer. Tim tightens his fingers on his staff. He can’t tell if Scarecrow’s carrying his scythe, but he doesn’t want to take any chances.

 ** _“Poor little bird, all alone in the rain,_** ” Scarecrow mocks. **_“Lose the flock, did we?”_**

He presses his lips shut. For all either of them knows, one of the others is nearby. No reason to confirm otherwise. The eyes flicker and then-

-go out.

Tim doubts that’s intentional, but it works, he’ll give the man that. In this darkness? Ha-ha, good luck finding him now. Scarecrow knows it, too-he starts laughing before whistling, a short, single chirp.

Tim is expecting the other one to show up, like it (she? He thinks it’s a she) did before. And there are indeed horse’s hooves, muffled a little by the worsening rain, and coming up fast behind where he last saw Scarecrow’s eyes. And now he can see him, at least a little, thanks to the glowing horse.

…he is not equipped to take him now. On the ground? Fine. But that horse is big, nearly taller than its master*, and he thinks the hooves are bigger than his head.

The Scarecrow swings himself up on its back and Tim has an Idea.

Bruce is over by Crime Alley (that really is the name…only in Gotham) this evening. It’s not that far, and if he can lure Scarecrow down there…

“Come and get me, then!”

The horse rears up and yeah, those hooves are bigger than his head. By like, a lot. Tim takes that as his cue to leave, grappling up just out of reach, or so he hopes, and resisting the temptation to go faster and leave him behind.

Okay…turn here…keep on this street, that side street won’t fit the horse…the horse. He doesn’t hear the horse. It’s not raining so hard that he shouldn’t be able to hear the horse.

He grapples up a little higher, just in case, and turns to survey the dark road. There’s no sign of his pursuer.

All right. Logically, the horse has to be painted with something to make it glow like that. Maybe the rain washed it off…but he should still be able to hear the animal.

Great. He’s lost him-

_Doo-do-do-do, do-do-do-doo!_

**SCHWING!**

The scythe strikes the bricks just below him and he very pointedly does not yelp before climbing higher. Scarecrow’s eyes flicker back into view.

**_“I know your game, little bird. Not tonight!”_ **

He knows where Batman is.

This just became that much more unpleasant.

The eyes come closer and Tim realizes, with growing horror, that Scarecrow can climb. That’s not fair. None of this is fair.

He blames Bullock, because he doesn’t like him anyway.

He jabs at the eyes with his staff and they move to the side before continuing to come up. Tim goes to move across the street and go find Bruce, Scarecrow be damned, when there’s the _riiiiiiiiiip!_ of fabric and something sharp digging into his back. Not deep, just a scratch, but it throws off his balance just enough for the eyes to be **right there** and long, scratchy limbs to wrap around him, fingers crushing his wrists and forcing him to drop his staff as they tumble to the ground.

**_“GOT YOU!”_ **

Cobblestones dig into his back and he struggles, manages to dig a knee into something soft. The limbs loosen, just a little, but it’s enough for him to squirm free-

-and immediately inhale a lungful of **bitter.**

He coughs, trying to dislodge the stuff, and feels yellow tendrils sink into his throat, scraping it raw.

Scarecrow laughs, yellow eyes growing and growing and _growing_ into big, round fireballs hovering in the dark.

**_“Having fun?”_ **

Tim headbutts him and he jerks back, snarling. The fireballs flare, heat singing Tim’s neck, and he scrambles backwards, struggling to his feet and trying very hard to remember that the street is not crumbling beneath him.

He runs, or tries to, ankles wobbling and knees knocking together every time he tries to change direction. He can hear the horse again, coming up at a full gallop, and he…fall-dives…into a tiny alleyway.

The horse comes to a halt, circling for a second to get its balance. Tim crawls behind a pile of crates (fishy smell, but he’s not by the docks, where-?) and doesn’t breathe. A shadow lunges at his cape and he pulls himself into a ball.

_It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real-_

The horse is silent, as its rider twists this way and that, yellow fireballs lighting up the street better than any lamp. The light just misses his boots when he leans down to look into the alley.

At long last, he clucks his tongue and turns the horse around, trotting back the way they came. Tim shudders, sticks his tongue out to maybe wash some of the poison out of his mouth. The rain burns.

“Tim-shit-”

 _Something_ drops down in front of him. There’s teeth and he doesn’t know what happened to his staff; his only defense is to shove a box down and try to crawl away.

“Tim, s’me, c’mon-”

The teeth are big. Sharp. A little red, at the tips. Tim struggles up, intending to run, and trips on another box. His arms pinwheel desperately before he goes down, head cracking on the stones.

THE END

****

 

 

*Crane is 6’3, his horse is 5’9-she’s a big girl. (Her name, for those wondering, is Carmilla.)


	23. All Around the Open Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t leave graves open overnight. This has a practical basis: you could fall in. Nobody wants to fall in.

Tony Gardenia curses Falcone with every fiber of his being. The only reason he’s out on graveyard duty is because he pissed the old man off. He knows this. But he can’t say anything, because it’s this, or a swim in the bay.

Fuck graveyard duty, man. The problem is that Gotham’s current cemetery (there’s a few…lotta deaths here, the mortuary business is booming) has a perfect view of the _one_ three-story building that can’t be seen from the main office a block away, the office with all of the, uh, paperwork. You know. For business.

So every night, some poor schmuck gets sent there to do Batman Watch. Most of the time, nothing happens. But it’s creepy and there’s always the chance of broken bones.

Tonight’s quiet. Little damp. Breezy. No sign of the Bat, so there’s that, at least.

(And, really, better here than the warehouse by Dock 39-the Red Hood’s been seen down that way, THANKS Sionis, and Batman is downright chummy in comparison.)

Tony adjusts his grip on the flashlight, sweeping the ground for obstacles. Last thing he wants or needs is to, like, trip on a tree root or something dumb. If he’s getting a busted leg, it’s gonna be shooting at the Bat or even asking for Poison Ivy’s number.

A gust of wind fills his nostrils with mulch and grass and a hint of taco from the food cart down the street, and his stomach rumbles. He’ll do one more sweep before stepping out and grabbing a late-night snacky.

The beam of his light splays across an angel tombstone, carved tears streaking down its stone face as it weeps over the body in its arms. Jeeze. Cemetery or not, that’s a little morbid, ain’t it?

Whatever. He pats the angel’s arm and murmurs, “Keep fighting the good fight, girl,” and prepares to move on.

And then the body sits up.

Tony’s flashlight cuts out when it hits the grass, but he doesn’t care. He’s too busy scrambling backwards, fumbling for his gun. The body falls gracefully to the ground, and then his light comes back on.

**_“Boo.”_ **

He can barely see the man, but it doesn’t matter. He sees burlap, and that’s enough.

“Fuck off, Crane,” he spits. He’s under orders, unfortunately, to bring him in alive if something happens. Doesn’t mean he won’t shoot the skinny SOB. He finally succeeds in getting his gun out and points it at him. “Don’t move.”

 ** _“Now, that’s an oxymoron, isn’t it?”_** He hates that mask. When Scarecrow tilts his head to the side, it makes it look like said head is falling off. **_“You should be the one not moving. There’s an open grave right behind you.”_**

“Bullshit.” He switches the safety off, takes a step back-

-and immediately takes a knife to the knee. The knee buckles, sending him to the ground, and Kitty Richardson pops up like the world’s stabbiest Jack-in-the-box. His gun clatters to the ground, goes off, and winds up in the grave.

 ** _“Told you so!”_** Scarecrow claps and scurries closer. **_“No one ever trusts me…it hurts my feelings.”_**

Richardson sighs.

“Help me out of here.”

Tony drags himself away from the grave, hands wrapped tightly around his injured knee, as Scarecrow walks over-

-and shoves him back towards the grave. Richardson mutters something about ‘being short is such bullshit’ but steps back, disappearing from view for a brief moment.

“Get back! Get away from me!”

He lashes out with his good leg and Scarecrow leaps back, mask somehow affronted by this new development.

 ** _“That wasn’t polite at all,”_** he growls, and Tony gulps, heaves himself to his feet, and starts hobbling. Scarecrow laughs and strolls after him. **_“All around the open grave, the Scarecrow chased the victim…”_**

Are you kidding? What the hell? Batman never ruins nursery rhymes. If he gets out of this, he is going straight to the Bat and giving him a big, wet, kiss.

He puts on his brass knuckles just in case and tries to make for the small forest of tombstones. Maybe he can hide behind one.

**_“The victim thought he’d get away-”_ **

**BLAM!**

“Throw him in, then!”

Tony goes down, stabbed knee having become the shot knee. Scarecrow lunges forward, hands latching onto his ankles, and starts pulling. There’s an awful tearing noise from the knee and Tony howls.

 _Knuckles_ , he remembers through the haze of pain. _I got the knuckles on._

He gulps and tries to twist around and lurch upwards, but the movement puts even more strain on the ruined knee.

Little hands erupt from the ground and yank on his shirt and suddenly he’s falling, falling-

  1. MOTHERFUCKER!



“ _Now_ will you help me up?”

He sees, through the red coloring his vision, Richardson-and his gun, that little _bitch_ -being hauled out of the grave. Before he can try to drag her back, she’s out of reach and Scarecrow’s looming over him. He pulls the mask off, puts his glasses back on, and says softly, “I informed your employer that I don’t work for him. Perhaps this will make that clear.”

“What-no. No, no-”

A little smoke pellet falls down next to him. He tries to get away from it, get to a pocket of fresh air, but it follows.

It doesn’t take very long for the grave to sprout fangs.

THE END


	24. Beware of Hitchhiking Scarecrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossing your fingers is just a smart thing to do. Bring on the good luck, ward off the bad luck, protect you from hitchhiking ghosts whilst passing a graveyard…
> 
> Short and a little weird because it was written when I was trying to get back into the Scarecrow-zone. Sorry for the delay-it hailed! Legit hail, man! But yeah, the hail knocked out the power and it took a bit for it to come back.

Gotham has seven cemeteries, and that’s not counting the three outside the city limits, or the really, really, old one that’s half-swallowed by the swamp. Or the mausoleum at Wayne Manor.

Hey, when your claim to fame is having a bunch of costumed murderers running around, your mortuary business is booming.

Gustav Little drives past one of the older in-town ones every single day on his way to and from work. It’s a little out of the way, like cemeteries are supposed to be, with big, gnarled trees coming up to shelter the tombstones, which are starting to lean to the right, just a bit. Nobody uses it anymore-it’s full-and as time goes by, there’s fewer and fewer visitors in it.

Gustav hates driving by, really. Especially in the winter, when it’s dark by six and the white stones look…kind of _alive._

But hey, man’s gotta eat, so he crosses his fingers and holds his breath every time he drives by and for the past fifteen years, nothing bad has happened.

Until now.

To be fair, his old lady has been making a scary rattling noise for days. But he’d hoped to be able to squeak it out to this weekend. C’mon, girl, don’t do this to him now! Not here!

His old lady has it in for him. She chup-chups and sputters and finally rolls to a stop in front of the cemetery. Gustav lets his breath out in a huff and stares at the steering wheel in utter betrayal.

“Why,” he asks. Smoke begins to rise from the hood.

Great. He gets out, opens her up, and smacks the engine with his umbrella a few times before getting back in the car to call an Uber. And a tow truck. And his neighbor, to ask her to please feed his cat, he’s late.

Gustav has lived in Gotham his whole life. It’s not hyperbole, when people say there’s murderers lurking around every corner. So he gets back in the car, locks the doors, and spends fifteen minutes and a buck fifty on Candy Crush.

There’s only a couple of lights out this way. A streetlight, at the end of the fence, and a little light in the cemetery itself. It’s not enough.

Uber! Uber, where are you? And tow-truck-man-something moved in there. He saw it with his own two eyes.

It’s six-thirty. It could be mourners, still. Maybe somebody’s come in to town to see their dear sweet gramma or whatever. Or a couple of kids screwing around, yeah.

It’s two people. They look like they’re facing the car. No, they are-the taller one waves.

And then they start moving forward.

This being Gotham, with a murderer on every street corner, Gustav…panics. He pushes the seat back as far as it will and huddles up next to the pedals. Maybe they’re harmless, he doesn’t care. He’d rather feel stupid than be dead.

Headlights wash over the car and he pokes his head up. The people in the cemetery are nowhere to be seen, but the tow truck and the Uber driver are here.

He gets out of the car so they can load her up, and it’s only when he’s reaching for his wallet that he notices his fingers are still crossed. They’re a little stiff when he uncrosses them, and it’s dumb, but…he feels…not right about it. Hey, when you’ve been crossing your fingers by cemeteries for thirty years…

The Uber guy does the same thing, it turns out, and they laugh about it in the car. At least, until a needled hand hangs over the driver’s seat and a cold voice hisses, “You’ll drive where I tell you.”

Gustav gulps. Uber guy snarls, “Not today, fucker.”

He jerks the wheel, sending the car careening through the fence and over three rows of tombstones before it finally hits an angel and stops. The airbags deploy.

Gustav sits there, gasping and nursing broken ribs, as the security guards run over. There’s a groan in the back seat and a, “Don’t even say it.”

Another voice laughs. Sounds pained.

“Should have buckled up.”

Gustav and Uber guy fall out of the car and crawl away as the guards descend upon it, guns drawn. There’s sudden movement inside, and before anybody can do anything, the car reverses, tires shrieking, and speeds off through the cemetery.

Gustav looks Uber guy. Uber guy is staring after his car in shock.

Fuck it. He’s calling Lyft this time.

THE END


	25. Hindsight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a bat flies into your house on Halloween, your house is haunted. Clearly, the ghosts let the bat in. (It goes without saying that that’s bad.)

 Hindsight is 20/20. Well. So they say. Jonathan’s vision has never been 20/20, hindsight or otherwise. The person who coined that phrase has no respect for the visually impaired and he doesn’t like them.

But tonight, they’re both more amazed than anything that it’s three in the morning on November first, and they’re not in Arkham yet. Gotham is both screaming and on fire, but they’ve returned to their bolt-hole (some seedy apartment in the Bowery whose owner is currently dead in a dumpster somewhere), and Batman is nowhere to be found.

This has never happened before, and some small part of him hisses that the night isn’t over and that _surely_ he’s missing something. He tells that part to be quiet.

Kitty’s already sitting on the counter, waiting for the kettle to go off, and when he gets close enough she reaches over to wrap her fingers around the noose (not really, too much of a risk, but it looks like one all the same) around his neck and tug him over. She’s still a little flushed from the cold and he doesn’t have to see a mirror to know the burlap’s rubbed his cheeks a little rawer than he’d prefer, but tonight was a success. You’d think people would learn, at some point or another, that having a big, inflatable Jack-o-Lantern is just _asking_ for trouble.

…heh. Hindsight is _not_ 20/20, apparently, even for those with working eyes.

Two of Kitty’s fingers-freezing, but he suspects that’s just a Girl Thing-come up to pluck a piece of burlap out of his hair.

“How has this thing not fallen to pieces, again?”

“I don’t know.”

They share a laugh, a little giddy from the adrenaline rush, and the kettle starts to screech.

They have their tea, share a shower, and collapse into bed around four-thirty. And that’s right about the time there’s a soft fluttering noise near the closet.

Investigation reveals a small, black bat. Nothing out of the ordinary for Gotham. Granted, they don’t usually get in, but…

Contrary to popular belief, Jonathan likes bats. Not Bats, but the harmless, bug-eating rodents are fine. They look like little dogs. So he doesn’t mind, too much anyway, catching it in a spare coat and going to let it back out. That, unfortunately, leads to a very unpleasant discovery.

The door is open.

There’s only so many reasons the door would be open, and none of them are good.

He releases the bat, savors one more moment of relatively pain-free existence, and picks up his scythe.

For a while there, early on, the superstitious fools that make up most of Gotham insisted Batman was a phantom, the spirit of justice or some such nonsense. It didn’t take long for a fair amount of them to find out that, phantom or not, he could be injured, could be _broken_. But Jonathan will admit, to himself at least, that if ever there were such a thing as a living ghost, strange as it might sound, that would be the Bat. Clearly he doesn’t pass through solid walls, but he _does_ pass through security systems without a care.

**BLAM!**

He does not, however, pass through bullets.

Fifteen minutes, several bruises, and a few cracked ribs later, they’re handcuffed in the car.

Every year, this happens. You’d think they’d learn to get out of Gotham after Halloween, but…

Hindsight is 20/20, after all.

THE END


	26. Knock on Wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A LOT of cultures have some variant of this one-touching (or stating your intent to, at least, like we do today) wood to either avoid tempting fate, bring good luck, avoid bad luck…rule of thumb, it doesn’t hurt to rap on that wooden picture frame.

Jonathan isn’t superstitious, but the one thing he does-out of habit, even, not even realizing he’s done it most of the time-is to knock his knuckles against the wooden scarecrow pole out in the fields.

He thinks he started doing it because he was afraid of it. Granny moved it all the time (until he got big enough to do it), and he could never remember where it had gone until he _found_ it. And at night, up in his room…it always looked like it was watching him. Waiting.

Granny found him sleepwalking out there one night, a box of matches in his hand, and he suspects…not knows, mind you, but suspects…that his unconscious intention had been to burn it.

So, in a show of defiance, he’d taken to tapping on its pole.

It had been later, when he’d escaped the chapel (Granny fixed the door after that-or, rather, made him fix it) and had taken shelter under it, that they’d come to an understanding. And after that, the knocks had been…friendly, in a way.

Yes, he is aware that this is a little bit pathetic. But to be fair, it’s always the odd ones that prevail in books. The loners, the outcasts, they’re the ones who change the world, in the end. And so he continues to knock on the old wooden pole when he passes it. Maybe it’s a little lucky. Maybe it’s so it doesn’t turn on him and feed him to the crows to save itself.

It’s an ugly thing, cobbled together from Granny’s father’s clothes, mended from time to time when too much straw starts showing. The hat is one of hers, and the head is a potato sack, tied at the ‘neck’ with an unnecessarily scary face stitched onto it. It’s lashed to a makeshift cross that gets pounded into the ground with a small mallet. Jonathan wondered, as a boy, if there were bones inside those ratty clothes and burlap head, bones and sinew and mummified flesh, but he doesn’t think that’s the case.

He hopes that’s not the case.

He’s hiding by it, now, curled up at its base and listening to Granny screaming his name. He can’t keep running, as much as he’d like to. He fell-a real fall, not a ‘fall’ fall-yesterday and his knee is…it could be better. How he got out here without her catching him is sort of amazing.

It’s hot, and sticky, and so, so still. No bugs or birds or anything. Just Granny, Jonathan, and the scarecrow.

And she’s getting closer.

He presses up against the wood and, out of habit, knocks his knuckle against it twice.

In the distance, a flock of sparrows erupts out of the wheat, shrieking in panic. Snake, maybe. Whatever it is, Granny stops. When she calls for him again, she’s farther away and moving off towards where the birds went up.

Jonathan pulls in a deep, ragged breath and sinks down to the dirt. In a few minutes he’ll get back up, make his way towards the house. She’ll forget, eventually, that she’s angry. She always does. But for now, just for another minute, he’s going to stay here and catch his breath and keep the scarecrow company.

Just for another minute.

THE END


	27. Werewolves of Gotham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the same universe as ‘Murderous Philanthropy'. Just. Just go with it. Werewolves, particularly one about busting one in human form.

“Kitty-Kitty, there’s a pedestrian, that is a pedestrian, he has the right of way-Kitty-!”

The motorcycle tilts left. There’s no bump, or screaming, so Jonathan’s left to assume she missed the man. He wouldn’t know. His eyes are closed. Plausible deniability and all that.

“Where are you?” Edward demands, voice crackly over the radio. “We’re going to lose her-Harley, stop flirting with the traffic cop, please-if you don’t hurry up!”

“A block out-”

“Move, you stupid fucks!”

A gaggle of tourists (identifiable by fanny packs and maps) dives back to the relative safety of the sidewalk. They take a shrieking right and that’s it, he’s driving them back home whether she likes it or not.

“Drive a little faster, would you?”

“Shut _up_ , Edward-”

And that’s about the time something big, hairy, and slobbering comes tearing out of an alley and sprints down Main Street, heading for the riverfront.

“We’ve got him!”

“What is going on down there?” Oswald does not sound happy. Well. He never sounds that happy, but he really doesn’t sound happy now. Jonathan can’t blame him. This thing broke his leg last week, which means he has to sit this one out. He’s understandably sulking about it. “Is it dead? I want that pelt for a bedroom rug!”

He means it, too. Frightening thought, really.

No matter. He unwinds his arms from Kitty’s waist, hopes she doesn’t crash them into a fire hydrant, and unhooks the crossbow from his back. Edward and Harley suddenly burst out of a side street, a traffic cop hot on their heels. Harley’s blowing kisses at him. Edward looks like he wants to drive into the bay.

All right. He can just see the thing-people are helpfully hurtling out of the way, now-and they’re smooth, going straight, he’s just lined up his shot when the werewolf takes a bus to the side and is carried far, far away on the oversized windshield.

“Oswald,” he says, eyeing the irate-looking cop in the rearview mirror, “we have a small problem.”

* * *

Three hours later, they’re been bailed out of jail and driven to Oswald’s townhouse in upper Gotham. It has been unanimously agreed that this is Harley’s fault. Well. Unanimously apart from Harley, who somehow got the cop’s number on the way to jail.

“How did this happen.”

“There was a bus,” Kitty says. “We had her otherwise.”

“What bus was this.”

“I didn’t catch the number.”

“Hm.” Oswald’s expression does not bode well for the bus. “Later, then. You are all staying here.”

“I have papers to grade,” Jonathan says immediately, which is half true. They’re there. He doesn’t have to have them graded until Friday, but they’re there.

Oswald scoffs.

“Tomorrow is a holiday. You do not.”

Damn. It’s true.

“Regardless.”

“I wasn’t asking, I was informing,” Oswald says smoothly, and Jonathan wonders why one of his closest friends is a budding crime lord. Surely that wasn’t a smart move on his part. “You two will have to share a room, I’m afraid. Part of the building is closed off for repairs.”

That’s not even close to subtle.

Kitty laughs and leans back so her spine is against his arm.

“Bold of you to assume we don’t already share a room.”

The only high point of this is that Oswald has to rummage in his (is that silk? Come on!) robe pockets for his wallet, draw out a handful of bills, and all but fling them at Edward.

“Help me up.” Edward ignores him, too busy counting the bills and folding them up nicely, probably all facing the same direction. Oswald snarls. “Edward! Stop being a spiteful brat and help me up!”

It’s times like this that Jonathan thinks Edward is the bravest of them all. He stands up, pats Oswald on the head (poor choice, that) and strolls into the kitchen. The smaller man makes a face that rather resembles the werewolf they lost earlier.

“I’m going to kill him. It’ll look like an accident. Edward! Do you remember that episode where the woman cut her friend’s parachute and she skydived to her death? That will be you!” There’s laughter from the kitchen. Oswald’s hair seems to raise in fury. “See if I bail you out again, you ingrate!”

Harley shrugs.

“Eh, I could’ve flirted us out, Oz.”

“You flirted us in,” Kitty points out. “Besides, the booking officer’s immune. And better at it than you.”*

“Yeah…if Mistah J ever dies…” She hops up. “I’ll help ya up, Ozzy.”

“At least somebody respects my injury,” he grumbles. “Gabriel! Show everyone to their rooms.”

* * *

Jonathan has stayed at Oswald’s house twice. The first time had been a matter of ‘wine’. The second time had been less fun. He’d been mauled by a…he’s still not sure what it was. It had scales, that’s all he knows. They’d been tracking a vampire, it had fled into the sewers, and something _else_ had popped up out of the water, clawed him across the stomach, and landed him in one of Oswald’s obscenely expensive guest rooms with a private ‘deaf, dumb, and blind’ doctor fussing at him.

This time is much better. He’s not drunk, maimed, or otherwise incapacitated. In fact, he is comfortable and warm. A little sleepy, yes, but not so much that he can’t get through another chapter.

“I hate werewolves,” Kitty complains from the other side of the room. “Every time I see one, something goes wrong. My mother calls, it gets hit by a bus, I break a nail…every. Single. Time.”

Werewolves are not his area of expertise. They’re rare in large cities like Gotham, and very difficult to track down in human form. And when one does turn up, they’re usually dangerous enough that the police run them down before Concerned Citizens™ have to step in. Technically, they shouldn’t be involved yet, but like any crime lord, Oswald is Petty and, well, here they are.

He does, however, know that the idea of werewolves attacking mindlessly is a common misconception. They have no problem mauling anyone who gets in their way, but they frequently have a target, and a grudge.

Realistically, Oswald probably has a thousand enemies. And that’s assuming the thing wasn’t aiming for Edward, who, to this day, has to time his grocery visits _just so_ to avoid an infuriated clerk.

…perhaps it’s the clerk. Accidents do happen.

Kitty flings herself onto the bed and makes a noise of appreciation.

“We’re stealing these sheets.”

“We are?”

“Yes.”

Fine. They are indeed comfortable. He could get used to these…they’re very soft.

He sets his book aside, stretches, and narrowly avoids taking thin, calloused fingers to the ribs. That cannot stand, and he answers the attempted assault in kind. His fingers are longer, and it’s easier for him to skirt around a defensive hand to jab her in the stomach. _That_ provokes a shriek and the next thing he knows, she’s tackled him half-off the bed, narrowly avoiding knocking him against the nightstand.

“Of course, you realize this means war.”

“I have not yet begun to fight!”

She doesn’t get a chance to, either. Kitty’s a small woman, five feet if she’s an inch, and…well…he’s a lot bigger than she is. So, really, it’s not _entirely_ his fault when he flips back onto the bed and pins her to it by accident.

“Yield.”

“Never!”

He’s about to press his advantage when there’s a knock on the door.

“Is everything all right?”

Ah. A maid.

“Everything’s fine!”

“I’m being murdered!”

He sticks a hand over her mouth and resolutely doesn’t rip it back when she licks his palm.

“Everything’s fine!”

The door opens, just a crack. Just enough, he realizes too late, to trigger a minor booby trap: a small, silver dagger rigged to slash downwards. He opens his mouth to warn the girl, but it’s too late. The door is open. The knife is down, dripping blood onto the carpet. And her arm-

-her arm. The, ah, the cut on her arm. It’s bleeding, but even from here he can see that that’s not muscle inside, it’s _fur._

Well. That’d be how the thing got past Oswald’s security…

Eye contact is made. The girl grimaces, showing big teeth, and they’re sprinting for the door just as she throws her shoulder against it.

They make it, barely, and the door clicks shut just in time. Outside, there’s a howl and a furious scratching. It sounds like chunks of wood come loose, but he’s not about to prove that.

“See? Every time!” This is terrible. This is literal _Hell_. “Can you hold her?”

Maybe. He definitely doesn’t want to be eaten, so…

“I can try!”

“One minute!”

She doesn’t go for the weapons, she goes for the dresser. And it takes her a minute, but she does manage to shove it over to the door. That won’t hold the thing outside for long, but it’s long enough to climb out the window.

The noise has drawn out the others. Oswald is riding a little motor scooter, shotgun mounted on the handle, but Harley’s sprinting ahead with what Jonathan thinks might be a bazooka.

Neither of them are faster than Edward, however. Or, more accurately, Edward’s computers-the man himself is nowhere to be seen, but he must be in the room with them, because they’ve barely rounded the corner to see the thing halfway through the door when a picture swivels upwards, a flash of silver appears, and a cross bolt flies from the floral wallpaper and sinks into its skull.

They gather round. Harley kicks it a few times, and when it doesn’t stir, she lowers the bazooka. Oswald frowns.

“Did you get a look at it?”

“It was your maid,” Jonathan says, a little breathless, a little paranoid about camera locations. He thinks that’s one there, in the wall sconce, but who knows, really.

“She’s fired,” Oswald says decisively. Then he turns his chair and rolls back down the hall, phone in hand. “Who’s for chow mein?”

There’s a crackle from the ceiling and Edward’s voice comes over the speakers.

“No onions!”

THE END

 

*Hi, Officer Grayson!


	28. Crick-Crack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say it with me, now: ‘don’t step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back!’ Probably not, but sometimes sidewalk cracks can take out an ankle, so watch your step.
> 
> Sorry, Bruce, but you’ve had a pretty comfy year, considering, so…

_Bruce is eight years old, and it’s a good night. They went out. Mother put on her new pearls and Dad put on his best cufflinks and they went out for Italian before going to a movie._

_It’s not raining tonight, but it’s going to, he can smell it coming. He hopes there’s no thunder. Thunder at Wayne Manor is…it’s loud. And he knows what it is, it’s not that, but it’s unpredictable and it makes his skin crackle and he doesn’t like it._

_Dad’s gone ahead to get the car, so he and Mother are waiting on the sidewalk, within running distance of an awning, just in case. They need to repave everything over this way. They’ve been doing construction, Dad said when they got here, and things got a little torn up._

_Bruce is antsy, a little, from sitting for so long, and he’s hopping over the cracks in the sidewalk to stretch his legs. Mom’s looking from him to her nails to the street, hands gripping her purse just a little too tight._

**_CRACK!_ **

_He freezes, thinking, at first, that he’s stepped on…who knows, a dropped watch, a peanut shell…and looks down. Nothing’s under his foot but a small crack in the sidewalk, jagged like a Jack-o-Lantern’s grin. His eyebrows knit together and he turns to ask Mother if **she** stepped on something, and feels his jaw drop in horror._

_Mother. Mother’s…broken. Her purse strap is tangled in clutching fingers and she’s nearly bent double, pained wheezes slipping out of ruby lips._

_“Mother?” He inches forward. There’s another horrifying **CRACK!** and Mother gasps, jerks to the side, and begins to fall. “Mother!”_

_Bruce rushes for her, hoping to catch her before she hits her head, and there’s more **CRACKCRACKCRACK!** Mother jerks and twitches each time until finally he sees a piece of white sticking out of her back when her body hits the sidewalk._

_“Mother!”_

_The cracks under his feet split open and a long, thin arm shoots out of it, clawed fingers digging into the cement with a terrible **SHRIIIEEEEK!** Bruce gulps and backs up, looking desperately for his father. Dad is nowhere to be seen. Mother is…she’s still gasping, but she’s bleeding around the white (bone) a-and she needs a doctor._

_Another arm flies out of the sidewalk, followed by a sinewy body and long, long legs.* The…man?…crouches down for a minute, looking like a big spider, before twiiiisting his head nearly one hundred and eighty degrees to gaze at Bruce with big, yellow eyes. His mouth is jagged like the cracks, but he’s smiling all the same._

**_“Boo.”_ **

_Bruce bolts, all but leaping onto the asphalt and sprinting in the direction Dad had gone. The man’s (monster’s) head snaps back around and he pushes himself upright-_

_-and gives chase._

**_“DIDN’T YOU EVER HEAR ABOUT STEPPING ON CRACKS, BRUCIE?”_ **

_Bruce dives under a car and tries not to breathe. Dusty black boots stop inches from his face a few seconds later._

**_“Where, oh, where has my li-ttle Bruce gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?”_ ** _The boots move around the trunk of the car and Bruce thinks maybe…maybe he’ll go away. **“With his eyes so big and HIS BREATHING SO LOUD-”**_

_The thing is suddenly down on the ground, looking right at him._

**_“I found you!”_ ** _It lifts a hand. There’s something in the hand-a bird. A little robin redbreast, squirming frantically against the clutching fingers. **“Come out, or I crush it.”**_

_To prove its point, it tightens its grip, just enough to make the bird scream. Bruce shudders at the sound._

**_“Come out!”_ **

_He comes out. Like lightning, his arm’s caught in the thing’s other hand, claws cutting through his jacket and his shirt and into his skin._

**_“There you are.”_ ** _He’s yanked up against the boney chest and the head tilts downwards, bathing him in yellow. **“Step into the light.”**_

_The last thing he hears is the bird’s cries._

* * *

“Bruce. Bruce!”

Bruce wakes with a start. Room. He’s in his room (a rare thing, these days). A humidifier is running. Dick is perched in a chair he’s dragged over from the other side of the room, staring at him with wide eyes.

He’s all right. Things are starting to come back to him, now. That new one running around, the one dressed like a scarecrow. He’d gotten the drop on him, sprayed him in the face with some sort of toxin. Dick, he vaguely remembers, had dragged him to the car and driven home.

…

He’s been drugged. That’s the only reason he’s wondering _how did Dick reach the pedals?_

It’s a funny thought, really, that little boy pulling the seat up and probably-and probably driving like a blind man, oh, God. It’s not funny anymore. This is terrible.

“Bruce?”

Dick sounds scared. Bruce…can’t blame him for that.

“I’m all right, chum,” he says, wondering why his throat hurts so much. Dick lights up like a Christmas tree and before he can be stopped, he’s leapt over the chair and onto the bed.

“You’re okay!”

But is Gotham?

Dick, ever the chatterbox, doesn’t seem to notice or care about Bruce’s newfound alarm over the state of the city.

“-Alfie said you were too stubborn to be anything but fine but I think he’s kinda hopin’ maybe this’ll make you not be Batman anymore and you’re not gonna not be Batman, right, Bruce, ‘cause this guy’s a _nut_ and-”

He stops for air and Bruce reaches over to tousle his hair.

“No, Dick, I’m not going to stop being Batman,” he says, wishing Alfred would magically appear, preferably with a cup of hot tea. “I’m going to catch this lunatic.”

Dick leaps off the bed with a whoop and runs out into the hall, shouting, “ALFREEEEEED!”

“Indoor voice, Master Dick.”

Bruce grimaces. He’s going to be, as Dick often puts it, ‘burned to the ground’. He just knows it.

When his door opens a moment later, he puts on the best sheepish smile he can. Alfred’s expression could end a war and likely provoke desperate apologies from both parties.

“Master Bruce,” he says, and no. He wasn’t really ready. Not yet. “I see you’re back among the living.”

This is not going to be enjoyable in the least.

THE END

 

*Go ahead. Look up a panel of _Year One_ , any panel. Jonathan Crane has MODEL LEGS in that comic, I swear.


	29. With Friends Like These...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opening an umbrella inside is bad. For that matter, upsetting unstable murderers is also bad, but when in Gotham…

Dove blames the boss for this. This is all his fault and she hopes something bad happens to him. Not necessarily death, but, like…he could step on a Lego. That’s bad…no, that’s too mean. Um…she’ll come up with something later. When she’s not crouched behind the bar, trying desperately to get the new girl to stop crying.

So far, Scarecrow-and it _is_ Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane isn’t here right now-is focused on Cobblepot. Dove would like him to stay that way.

The new girl (her name is Sasha, she’s twenty-two, Alley kid trying to claw her way outta there) gulps and Dove shushes her, pulls her into a tight hug and breathes, “S’okay, just _don’t make any noise._ ”

She’s got every right to be afraid. This isn’t a social visit. Scarecrow’s presence was announced by screaming in the other room, followed by one of security guards stumbling through the doors, bleeding from the eye sockets. Whatever he wants, it’s not a drink and a chat.

Cobblepot is standing up as straight as his leg will allow, not that it gives him any advantage whatsoever. He’s not smiling, but so far he’s attempting to diffuse the situation rather than handle it himself.

“What is the meaning of this, Scarecrow.”

Scarecrow reels back, mockingly affronted, before lunging forward and digging his fingers into the table between the two. Sasha shudders and buries her face in Dove’s shoulder, a few bobby pins tumbling to the floor.

 ** _“Don’t you remember our last meeting, Penguin?” _**he hisses, shoulders twisting and cracking as he leans forward. **_“And how poorly that went?”_**

…yeah. Cobblepot made a deal with Gordon about one of Scarecrow’s in-town suppliers (Dove suspects he was trying to take out the competition), there was fire, and, uh…well. It went badly. See? This is all his fault.

Cobblepot is silent for a few seconds. Then, low and furious, “Perhaps you should have taken me up on my offer of bird relocation.”

Really. They’re all going to die screaming because Scarecrow killed the crows inhabiting one of his hideouts.

This isn’t fair. She’d envisioned a bank robbery gone wrong, maybe. Joker, if she was really unlucky. Hell, yes, maybe even Scarecrow…but not because of a bunch of goddamn birds.

She thinks longingly of the lucky bastards who got caught up in that gang war with Sionis last year. That wouldn’t have been so bad.

Scarecrow throws back his head and laughs, shoulders quaking. The big lugs he’s brought with him, the ones Dove is pretty sure have been lobotomized, stare blankly at the gold walls.

 ** _“Aww, no hard feelings!”_** He leans forward again, the ragged end of the noose brushing lightly against the table top. **_“It didn’t hurt for long! Not like it will for you.”_**

It’s bad, but if he takes down Cobblepot, he might be distracted enough for her to grab Sasha and run. It’s Gotham, it’s every asshole for themselves-wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

She shifts Sasha to the side, just a little, and leans over to get a better angle through the crack in the little door leading back here.

The boss has an umbrella. Jury’s out on whether or not it’s a murder-umbrella, but he has one. Maybe it’ll be enough of a deterrent even if it’s harmless.

Cobblepot makes an irritated noise and limps forward, shoes squeaking ever so slightly on the tiles.

“Really, Scarecrow,” he says, and this is about to get ugly. Jesus, take the wheel, “don’t you think this is overkill?”

Scarecrow tilts his head too far to the right.

**_“No.”_ **

One hand flies upwards. Cobblepot flings the umbrella between them and it…opens.

Ordinary umbrella it may be, but the boss has killed people with those before. He knows how to use them to his advantage. And today, before Scarecrow can tip his wrist just so, that umbrella knocks his hand backwards, sending a white spray into the air.

**_“YOU LITTLE-”_ **

Scarecrow clambers onto the table. The big lugs move forward, slow and steady. Dove gets to her feet, staying low so maybe he won’t see her, and shoves Sasha towards the other bar door.

Scarecrow may not be the powerhouse Bane is, or even as physical as Harvey can be, but he’s fast and he’s nimble. Before Cobblepot can make a run for it, he’s launched himself off the table and tackled the smaller man to the ground, sending the umbrella rolling uselessly away.

Fuck it, time to go.

She gives Sasha another shove and this time the girl surges to her feet and dashes for the door.

**CRA-ASH!**

The skylight splinters and Dove’s only thought is a hysterical, _like a good neighbor, Batman is there._

Batman lands on both men, flattening them out like cookie dough, and turns his attention to the vegetables a few feet away.

**_“Get him, you fools!”_ **

They try. They fail. Once they’re propped nicely against the bar, Batman turns to the other two.

“Gunrunning, Cobblepot? I’m almost disappointed.”

Does she have an alibi for that? Yeah. Will she share it? Eventually. But right now, that jackass is riding in the Batmobile for bringing Scarecrow down on them. Besides, she really does have to call the insurance. Jake’ll probably get a kick out of her knock-off jingle, anyway. Maybe it’ll become a meme.

THE END


	30. Watch Your Step!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t walk under a ladder! Which, really, you shouldn’t-you might accidentally topple a person on it, or knock it over and hurt yourself. Go around, peasant!

Myra knocks over an old woman and doesn’t care. She can’t stop, and the collision slowed her down too much already.

It’s the middle of the day, and she’s just come tearing out of a bank that Two-Face is robbing. Because God forbid you try to bank on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, she was the second person in line (great), and he took a liking to her.

So, really, she _had_ to kick him in the balls and run.

She’d gotten lucky. In the confusion, she’d managed to duck out the door and sprint down an alley, but Two-Face had taken offense to the ball-kicking, abandoned the bank, and come after her.

She leaps over a low barrier and kicks over a traffic cone that’s crept onto the sidewalk. Behind her, there’s shouting and a call of, “Stop that bitch!”

A ladder is leaning against the wall. There’s a paint bucket on top. She darts under it, kicking it loose as she does so, and risks sprinting across the street and into a seedy coffee shop. Outside, Two-Face and his men are skirting around the spilled paint (to be fair, it could be acid) and looking from side to side. They don’t look happy. She doesn’t care.

Holy crap, she did it-SHIT.

Two-Face is looking. She whirls around, hoping he didn’t see her, and smacks straight into a man. Glasses strike her head and there’s an irritated, “Watch where you’re going.”

“I’m so sorry-” The glasses keep going to the floor. “Shit-”

She drops down (hey, out of sight anyway!) to pick them up. They survived the fall, and when she stands up to give them back, their owner is…well.

Yeah. Great. She’s pissed off Pretty Eyes McCheekbones.

_Why me?_

“Here…?”

He swipes them back, inspects them for injury, and puts them on. She’s just about to try to salvage this situation (it works in romcoms, right?) when he pulls out a little thing that looks like breath freshener and sprays her in the face with it. The room immediately starts to spin.

_NO!_

“Forgive my cousin, she’s narcoleptic,” she hears him reassuring someone, and before she can deny it, she’s out cold.

* * *

“-coffee, Jonathan! That’s all!”

“It’s not every day subjects all but fall from the sky, Kitty.” The bastard sounds positively giddy. “I had to take her, she knocked my glasses off.”

“Coffee,” the other voice says dully. “Good God-Jonathan, put me down! Put me _down_ , I’m not a doll!”

“You’re the same size as a big one.”

Where is she?

Myra cracks her eyes open. Her head is pounding. It’s dark, she’s tied to a chair, and wherever she is, it’s cold. And it smells like bleach and death.

She’s alone, but Pretty Eyes McCheekbones (Jonathan? The Asshole?) didn’t gag her, either. So she’s free to scream.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!”

“She’s awake.”

“Put me down, please.”

A door opens. At first, it looks like that’s something out of a Tim Burton film, but when she blinks a few times, it comes into focus as Jonathan, carrying a smaller woman. She’s not struggling; she’s literally just slumped over, looking…well…kinda like one of those big ragdoll cats. Who is this freak that just goes around kidnapping people, huh? What the hell?

_Knew I should’ve moved to Metropolis…_

“Let me out!” She struggles in the chair, hoping to maybe tip it. Or, like, hop towards him. It’s bolted to the floor. “Let me out, you bastard!”

He sets the woman in his arms gently on the ground. She brushes herself off and pokes him in the ribs.

“Really.”

“You tripped last time.”

“One time!”

Oh, great! They’re in this together! Bullshit.

“What the fuck do you want? To some make some freaky torture porn video? ‘Cause lemme tell you, buddy, I will bite your dick off if you-”

They’re laughing at her. Why are they laughing at her.

“I don’t think she knows who we are, love,” the woman says. Jonathan looks a little offended, but mostly amused.

“The price I pay for the mask…”

What.

This suddenly got a lot less ‘oh crap’ and a lot more ‘I’m gonna die’.

She twists her wrists against the ropes until she draws blood-owowowow-and snaps her mouth closed. Okay, okay. For all the jokes about ‘Gotham’s Masked Crazies’, not that many of them actually wear a mask. Most of them? They really are just…distinctive. So. Um. The Riddler dumped his, and he’s green anyway. She’s been a Cluemaster hostage before, and this isn’t him. Um…

Er…

“You kidnapped an idiot.”

“I’ve been drugged!” she protests, before she can stop herself. They don’t look impressed.

“Need a hint?”

NO.

…

Yeah.

She scowls at him-maybe he’ll be offended if she admits it-and doesn’t say anything. He sighs, steps over to a table that she can _just_ make out in the light from upstairs, and picks something up. It’s a loose, floppy something, with what looks like a rope hanging from the bottom.

He carries it back into the better light and she can now see that it’s brown. Looks rough. It twists in his fingers and _now_ she can see the stitched face.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.

“I think she gets it now.”

Oh, yeah.

“Please-”

“My dear,” the Scarecrow says, mask held delicately in front of him like a briefcase, “I have heard every variant of ‘please don’t’ that you can possibly imagine. I do not care. I care about avenging my glasses, and then, when I am done, perhaps I will return you to Harvey. Perhaps. We’ll see how generous I feel.” He smiles at her. “Chin up! You’ll be out of your misery eventually.”

Then the upstairs door slams shut and the room is dark.

“Tell me, child.” His voice is a whisper. **_“What are you afraid of?”_**

THE END

 


	31. There's Nothing to Fear but Fear Itself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Bad things come in threes’. Or, the conclusion of the Tragedy of Jessica Welsh, who has appeared in the last two collections, starting in Don’t Turn on the Light’s ‘Stranger Danger’ and continuing in Formidophobia’s ‘Traumatophobia’. Bummer, girl.
> 
> Recommended listening: Lemon Jelly’s ‘Experiment no. 6’. Happy Halloween, everyone! :D

Jessica Welsh (now Jessie Mahoney) left Gotham six months ago to resettle in Chicago. It’s similar enough to home to be comfy, but far enough away to be safe.

And if she road-tripped through Arizona and Washington before settling there, well, you can’t be too careful. It’s not paranoia if they’re really after you. Besides, everyone knows what happened to Crane’s mother. He went all the way to fucking Georgia to track her down. She survived.

That time. The second time, not so much.

So maybe she spends more hours than most at a shooting range. So maybe she doesn’t sleep. So maybe she makes Jon sleep in her room, rather than giving him his own. It’s not her fault that every time she closes her eyes she sees that _smile_ of his.

Jon’s in kindergarten, now. He’s surprisingly unharmed, given everything. He doesn’t like the dark, but what five-year-old likes the dark?

So yeah. Things are…they’re coping. They’re doing just fine, they’re building a life, Jessica’s even made a few mom-friends (after doing some heavy Facebook stalking to make sure they’re safe).

She tracks Gotham’s news a little obsessively, she’ll admit. So far, Crane’s been quietly staying in Arkham. Some poor psych student got an interview with him and died, but other than that…there’s been nothing out of him.

She’s not gonna lie, she hopes he gets eaten. Or shot mid-escape attempt. Or _something_. It has to be death, because these bastards shake off injuries like it’s nothing. And also, he’s an asshole and deserves it.

“Mommy!” Jon’s arms wrap around her good leg. “I missed you.”

Yeah. Her other leg is now the bad one. It’s improving, slowly but surely, but she needs a cane, still. Stairs are a bitch. There’s a handicap tag in her van, and there’s been days, more than she’d like, that she’s had to use one of the Little Rascals in Wal-Mart.

“I missed you too, baby.” She slings her arm around him, eyeing a stain on his Keroppi backpack. “Have a good day?”

“We got to go to the Hummingbird Gardens!”

What a thing, to be five.

She’s a little jumpy until they’re in the car with the doors locked, and then it’s easier to r-e-l-a-x. He’s not here. He’s back in Gotham. They’re fine.

* * *

Jon’s asleep and Jessica’s cleaning out her purse when the phone rings. She’s been getting telemarketer calls out the ass lately, and as a result, she answers without looking.

“Look, fucker, you take me off your call list or I will come for you and-”

“Hello, Jessica.”

Time freezes.

She knows that voice. It’s haunted her nightmares for months, that soft, almost soothing monotone.

Her leg is shaking. So is her hand. She can feel the syringe, can remember that _smug smirk_ , can-

“I know you’re there, Jessica. Your breathing is very…distressed. Draw it in on a count of five, please. One…two…three…”

“What do you want, you son of a bitch.”

The door’s locked. The windows are, too, and the one in her bedroom has the wardrobe shoved up against it. They all have alarms on them. He’s. Not. Here.

She gets up to check anyway.

“You were unwell, the last time we met,” he says, sounding for all the world like he _cares_. “I do worry so about my patients.”

“I’m not your patient.”

“I beg to differ.” He tsks, the sound harsher than usual with the static over the phone. “You’re unwell now. This level of paranoia must be affecting your life. How long do you think you can last before you snap, and take your son with you?”

She hangs up, does her rounds, and returns to her chair. Her limbs are shaking and there’s a ringing in her ears.

_He knows where we are he knows he knows he knows he knows HE KNOWS HE KNOWS HE KNOWS HE KNOWSHEKNOWSHEKNOWSHEKNOWSHEKNOWS_

_Stop._

So he has her number. She’ll get a new number. It’s a cell phone, it means nothing. For all he knows, she’s in Florida.

Google says he’s still in Arkham. She can buy that. Arkham’s as corrupt as they come, and the security’s a joke. She doubts it’s that hard to murder or bribe your way to a phone. He’s just trying to scare her. That’s his thing. Joke’s on you, buddy, she’s ready. She. Is. READY.

Jon’s asleep, little arms wrapped around his Robin Bear (Bat-Bear is sitting on the pillow, gazing into the closet), when she pokes her head in. Crane’s not getting to him. Not again.

She straightens out his blankets, tucks his ankle back onto the bed, and eases her way to the ground to kiss his forehead. He doesn’t so much as twitch.

The phone does not ring again. Jessica stays up all night anyway, clutching it in one hand and a loaded gun in the other.

* * *

It’s two months later, and she’s calming down at last. At least, until she checks her voicemail after a movie. It’s short, with no hint of irritation. But it makes her start sobbing in traffic.

“I notice you’ve missed your last few appointments, Jessica. If you could call back and reschedule at your earliest convenience?”

The phone eats pavement. Jessica makes it another two lights before having to pull into a Circle K to get her shit together.

“Mommy?”

“Not now!” she snaps, immediately feels guilty when she sees Jon’s wide eyes in the rearview mirror. “Not now.”

It takes her a good twenty minutes to calm down enough to drive, and she’s shaking like a leaf the whole way home. She scopes out the parking lot before all but dragging Jon inside.

The apartment’s dark but empty, and she finally starts to feel safe when she’s assured herself that the windows haven’t been opened or anything. She tells Jon to stay inside and don’t open the door while she runs down for the mail, and if she keeps her gun in her sweatshirt pocket, well…you can’t be too careful.

There’s no one outside. It’s hideously windy, leaves latching onto her clothes and hair, and she jogs back to the stairwell before starting to comb through the mail. Junk, junk, junkety-junk, bills…what’s that?

‘That’ is a postcard. It’s a picture of Arkham in the daytime (there’s no helping it), with ‘wish you were here!’ scrawled over it, and when she turns it over in trembling fingers, the back’s covered in two sets of writing. One is a disaster. The other’s painfully neat.

_Have you tried Xanax?-J.C._

_Don’t skip your PT, you’ll be SORRY.- <3, K.R._

Jessica looks at the postcard for two minutes, the other mail slipping from her fingers and fluttering to the ground. Then she’s _moving_ , booking it for the elevator with the postcard scrunched in her fingers.

They spend the night at a hotel outside of town. She tells Jon it’s ‘for fun’. It’s so much fun, he conks out by seven-thirty.

She spends the night looking for hotels and Airbnbs in other cities. They have to move.

* * *

Jessica wakes up to Jon’s crying. A frantic investigation turns up no mortal danger, but Bat-Bear’s head has been torn off.

She swallows down the jolt of frustration **(really?)** and grinds out, “Sweetie, you know you have to be careful with your toys.”

“I didn’t-!”

Kids never do, do they.

“I’ll fix it in a little while, okay?”

He huddles up with the Robin Bear and doesn’t say anything. She catches a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror and cringes. Wide-eyed, hair everywhere…she looks crazy.

God, she looks _fucking nuts._

She locks herself in the shower and wonders why she doesn’t feel guilty.

That fucking teddy bear, though…it’s just…come on. How rough are you gonna be, Jon? What the hell were you doing to that thing, sitting on the body and just yanking on the head?

Whatever. She’s tired, she’s stressed, he’s a little boy. Little boys are destructive sometimes. That’s all.

But come ON-

It’s not his fault. He’s a kid. That’s all. That’s all.

_Get it together, Jessica._

Hotel showers are shit. That’s the only reason she’s in there for half an hour. She’s not hiding or anything. The forcibly-long shower helps, though, and when she gets back out, she’s calm again and Jon seems to have forgotten the whole thing.

They go out for breakfast. It’s the closest thing to an apology she can muster. When they come back, Bat-Bear’s head is.

Missing.

“Jon-”

“I didn’t!”

They check out in half an hour.

* * *

She’s not sure where they are. Ohio, maybe. Who fucking knows. Who fucking cares.

They’re going to resettle in California, she’s decided. That’s far, and it’s close enough to Mexico that if the worst should happen, they can try there. Surely he won’t follow them that far south.

The timer goes off-she can shower now without ruining her dye job. She sticks her head out, intending to tell Jon to watch Wishbone or something, and stops dead.

Jon is sitting on the bed, watching a man make the Robin bear hop around on the opposite one. The man isn’t facing her, but he doesn’t have to be. She knows who it is.

“Get the hell away from my son.”

“There you are!” Richardson waves from the desk, where she’s flung a leg over the arm of the cheap chair. “If you wanna rinse the dye, we’ll make sure he doesn’t stick a fork in an outlet.”

“Get out,” she spits. “Or so help me-”

Crane flips the bear in Jon’s direction and stands up, joints cracking as he swivels around to look at her. The bastard looks no different than he did…then…and her leg threatens to dump her on the floor.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” he says, voice dripping with concern. “I doubt you’ve been eating well, either…Denny’s is not the pinnacle of health food, you know.”

The gun is in the bathroom. She could get it, maybe, but…they’d see.

“You skipped physical therapy,” Richardson accuses, pointing at her wobbling leg. “I said not to! What is wrong with you?”

She can’t form words. She can only look at Jon, now hugging the bear and looking at Crane with wide eyes.

“She’s a true American parent, Kitty,” Crane says, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “They throw their own well-being under the bus and claim nobody else understands what _tired_ is.”

“True.” Richardson adjusts her position. “I’m still annoyed. I give you free medical advice and you run off to-where the hell are we, anyway?”

Crane shrugs.

“Motel 6, Middle of Nowhere.” He reaches back and ruffles Jon’s hair. Jessica snarls. “Now, now, my dear, that was uncalled for.”

“Get away from him.”

Crane raises one eyebrow, sticks one finger on the air, and reaches back in Jon’s direction. He doesn’t blink.

Jessica charges before that finger can touch Jon’s forehead, but she doesn’t get far before Richardson hits her in the head with the complimentary Bible. She goes down like a sack of bricks.

“I’m impressed.”

“So am I, frankly.”

Fuck them.

She gets her limbs back under her and lurches to her feet, breath painful in her nose and vision a little blurred.

“What do you want.”

“A follow-up,” Crane says smoothly. “I worry about my patients, Jessica. And you are not doing at all well. Look at you. You’re falling apart. Nothing happened to you whilst in my care, yet you are under the impression that every move I make will cause you harm. That’s not a healthy mindset, my dear.”

Seriously.

“Get away from him, and we’ll talk.”

“No.” He wags a finger at her. “This fear of yours is ruining your life, Jessica. We need to deal with it in a safe, stable environment. You can’t just pack up and run every time someone looks cross-eyed at the child. It makes you look like a flake. No one hires a flake, and then CPS will be called, and alas! All gone.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Accurate.” He motions to the bed. “If you don’t want to take care of that dye, we may as well begin. You should be off that leg, anyway.”

She sits. What else can she do? Crane smiles like she’s a dog that obeyed a command and bends down to pick up a small, black briefcase. She recognizes it, knows what’s inside. If she can just get Jon to this side of the room, he can get out, go downstairs and tell the clerk-

Crane suddenly picks him up and plunks him on the desk. Jon looks more confused than anything, even when Richardson pushes her chair back a little and says, “Time for your shot, sweetie.”

“I don’t like shots-”

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

Crane frowns.

“You see? For all you know, it’s a flu shot or a tetanus booster. But your mind went straight to the worst possibility. What next? No trick-or-treating, because there could be a razor blade? No friends, because their parents could be serial killers? Tsk, tsk.”

“Flu shot, my ass,” she snarls. “You wanna give someone a shot? Here’s my fucking arm.”

“That defeats the purpose of this exercise,” he says, drawing a vial from the case and giving it a little shake. “Now you’re going to sit there, and you’re going to watch me give the boy the contents of this syringe, right here, and then we’re going to discuss how it makes you feel. Is that clear?”

He’s too far away. Richardson, on the other hand…maybe…

She doesn’t have a choice.

She shoves herself off the bed and tackles the woman out of the chair and onto the floor. Jon screams.

“RUN-guh!”

At first, there’s nothing. But then there’s a deep pain in her stomach, one that turns to burning when she’s shoved off Richardson and onto the cheap carpet. The pain is in her side, and when she reaches a trembling hand around to see, it hits the handle of a switchblade.

“She’ll live,” Richardson says, accepting Crane’s hand up and brushing herself off. “For a bit, at least. Long enough.”

“Now she’ll be nice and _still_.”

They cut a sheet up and wrap the strips around her, leaving the knife in. She can’t do anything but lay there and moan when she’s moved. Jon is still sitting on the desk, crying and sniffling, “Mommy…Mommy.”

“There.”

She tries to reach for whoever’s closer (Richardson, she thinks, but they’ve both got scrawny wrists and her vision won’t clear), but they move away.

“Your mother will be fine,” Crane says. “Now stop crying. Stop it!”

Jon stops. He’s still sniffling, but he’s no longer bawling. She wants to reassure him, but she can’t make words.

She can, however, make out Crane pulling Jon’s arm towards him. His next words are directed at her.

“This is for your own good, you know.”

She gets out a desperate, “NO!”

For a minute, she thinks he listened after all. He steps back and there’s the sound of the case being closed.

“All right.”

“Thank you…” she breathes. “Thank you-”

Suddenly, Jon begins to scream.

THE END


End file.
